The Knight, the Beauty, the Beast, the Fool. Eat a Heart – Gain Love

“And don’t touch anything!” Cruz hissed at him.

Allex raised his hands to chest level in a gesture of innocence, grimaced, and widened his eyes.

He didn’t want to argue. He was already watching William Gatti, catching every look of his mobile facial expressions, every step. Professor Gatti, a lecturer on ‘evil minds’ and the psychology of serial killers, had the same ambiguous reputation as Allex …

Allex remembered him from his classes; he was truly extraordinary, incredibly smart, but extremely closed, and the students dubbed Gatti – in addition to his feline surname, which translated from Italian meant ‘cats’1 – the Sullen Dog: for his sullen appearance, conveying the ideology of a loner in every detail.

Professor Gatti was a high-functioning autistic, and his unique, phenomenal ability to see through the eyes of a criminal – called the method of active imagination – amazed everyone: both those who treated his talent with distrust, and those who intended to use the skill for their own purposes, in the interests of the investigation – like Jack Howard.

Allex was a beastie, too, unique but useful. Allex believed in the expertise and professionalism of everyone in the dining room that had become the scene of the Heartthrob’s crime. Bailey’s camera flash whistled and recharged, Ross’s pen rustled across the page of his notebook, Cruz gave directions, frowned, stepped over bloody splatters on the floor.

Will Gatti didn’t notice Allex until Allex stood behind him, close enough to see the picture from the right angle, and voiced his thoughts out loud.

“He serves them on the table … To whom?”

“To himself,” Will replied after a pause. “He looks at them himself.”

“Is he an aesthete? You can eat on the floor if you are very hungry.”

Professor Gatti glanced sideways at the young man, turned slightly.

“You can,” he agreed. “But he wants it on the table. The way it was done in his family.”

“But he’s not expecting his family for dinner, is he?”

Will squinted, trying to figure out if Allex was kidding or being serious.

“He is …” he concluded with a sigh. “But not a family.”

3. Best Employee

[United States, Baltimore, Reservoir Hill]

“What are you fiddling about with? There are still ten boxes in the back!”

The rustling and crackling of cardboard from the blade of a stationery knife, the hubbub of customers’ voices, the cry of howling children, the beeping of the barcode scanner at the checkout … Everything is as usual. Most commonly, he is simply not noticed, no longer rushed, because he does everything as it should be, has mastered the speed, time, rhythm, place, the routine has become a canvas into which anything can be written – or left a silent void.

Dylan didn’t even turn his head when the senior store assistant – the dark-skinned, corpulent Miriam – called out to him. Sometimes he pretended to be deaf, sometimes mute, and sometimes deaf-mute … Sometimes he put headphones in his ears – but without music, for show – so that no one would distract him for no reason. He pulled his baseball cap almost to the bridge of his nose, his gray eyes-icicles only occasionally scratched the visitors of the sales area: he did not turn around, stood facing the shelving, with his back to the outside world.

The Italian pasta packages were gone, the packs lay in neat rows – but not for long … Soon some degenerate customers would start mindlessly sorting through them, put the goods he had taken in the wrong place, and Dylan would get a reprimand.

The only job worse was that of the cleaning lady, who never stopped washing the shiny tile floors – from dust, water or snow, from scattered cornflakes or a broken bottle of ketchup. Some of the ketchup looked like bloodstains, but only some …

Dylan Vermillion was on the board of the store’s best employees, but he was the only one without a photo – just his name and job title. He didn’t like to have his photo taken, and management didn’t insist … It would be strange to think that this board was of any use to anyone other than the employees. Customers paid no attention to the board, or the employees, or the price tags, they carelessly made a mess of the sales area, dropped blocks of toilet paper, packs of cookies, and rust remover for plumbing on the floor … Dylan cleaned up after them.

A doll with swollen lips was pushing a cart full of groceries, with brightly colored packs of gummy bears and a green leek tail sticking out to the side, typing a text message on her smartphone, not looking at her feet. Dylan was counting down the seconds until she collided with a random obstacle, his broad back in a work jacket motionless, only his arms making mechanical, monotonous movements.

He had been learning this motionlessness for a long time, perhaps even overdone it – and from the outside his muscular figure looked like a statue frozen in a catatonic stupor.

From the opposite end of the shelving, following a dull thud, a scream was heard, then the rustle of falling bags of chips, an avalanche-like sound, interrupted by slaps and crashes from futile attempts to hold back the waterfall of goods.

“Sorry!” two voices exclaimed simultaneously: a male, young, hoarse one, and a female, swishy, stretching out the vowels.

They laughed, rustled, and apparently began to pick up food off the floor. After half a minute of chaotic efforts, the girl, giggling, walked on, occasionally casting interested glances at the guy who remained in place; the guy went in the opposite direction.

As soon as his silhouette appeared in the aisle where Dylan was laying out the juice boxes, a suspicious rustling sound came from the previous scene of the food disaster. The guy in the green jacket turned around, put his palms out as if conjuring the shelving not to collapse, watching with wide eyes as everything fell to the floor again.

“No, no, no … Please, no!” he begged. “Holy shit!”

He covered his mouth with his hands, his pale face turned red, and an absurd squeak escaped from his chest.

He looked around, meeting Dylan’s silent gaze, his eyebrows raised.

“I’m sorry!” he blurted, removing his hands from his face. “I tried!”

Dylan, who wanted to call him a clumsy idiot at first, huffed angrily, left the layout and boxes, turning in the direction of the young man. A menacing six-foot figure headed towards the heap of fallen packs, the culprit stood motionless, without fear, but with a guilty look.

He seems to be the only one in the entire history of Dylan’s work in this store who apologized for the mayhem. He seems to be the only one who even looked Dylan in the eye, addressed him – and not the faceless guy in a work jacket and baseball cap who stands in the aisle and prevents him from passing.

“I’ll clean everything up now, just tell me how to stack them so that they don’t fall over again.”

Disheveled chestnut hair lay in messy curls, the jacket was sticking out, the boots had battered toes, a clipboard was tucked under the arm … Dark eyes looked openly and directly.

“In the back rows – everything of the correct shape, in dense packaging; in the front – airy and light. What goes where and on which shelf – is written on the price tags.”

Dylan himself did not recognize his own voice, firm, strict, calm. The guy nodded, his white-toothed mouth smiled.

“I got it,” he said. “Thank you.”

As he bent down and began picking up cardboard boxes and round tubes from the floor, reading the labels, Dylan joined him.

In fact, he didn’t drop the damn chips, that stupid cow with the cart did … He could have run away, blamed it on her, just pretended he had nothing to do with it. He could have – but he didn’t.

He probably had nothing better to do on a late weekday evening, and it was probably his first time here, and he wouldn’t be back – he didn’t look like the son of a rich daddy living in an upscale apartment. He was a delivery guy or a volunteer, too young and too casually dressed to be here for anything other than work.

Dylan didn’t immediately notice the holster under the jacket rolled up on the narrow waist when the guy crouched down, and he didn’t show any surprise. So his boots were like that because he often used them to kick down doors or the spirit out of a criminal’s head. The guy was a policeman … So that’s where the white knight complex came from!

They finished quickly, successfully managing with four hands. Dylan was silent, the shaggy head turned in his direction only a couple of times, but also did not say a word.

Well, of course he’s looking at his scar! Or maybe he’s not looking … The guy was looking into his eyes, his lips were smiling, there were dimples on his cheeks, covered with barely noticeable reddish stubble.

No, he’s not looking …

“Thank you, Dylan! Sorry again,” the knight-policeman said in a friendly, casual tone, extending his hand for a handshake.

Dylan Vermillion blinked. It took him a moment to realize how he knew his name, that it was written on a badge, it was so simple …

His hand was in a fabric glove, he hesitated, thoughtfully, but still took it off. The guy’s palm was strong and warm, powerful, not corresponding to his frail constitution.

He was half a head shorter, though well-built. Appearances can be deceiving …

“It’s alright. Thank you,” Dylan responded.

The guy took a step to the side, and the tall figure of the store assistant backed away, letting him pass further.

“I’m already afraid to move and touch anything,” he chuckled.

“Beware of women with carts,” Dylan chuckled, his expression blank.

The young man made a funny face, winked, walked down the row of stands, and at the turn raised his hands up in mock horror, making way for an absent-minded customer talking on a headset.

Allex bought himself a sandwich that evening at the grocery store near Wilhelmina Gustavsson’s home, which cost half his salary, and it was not nearly as tasty as the one from the cafeteria at work. He spilled hot coffee on his jeans while hailing a taxi, trying to chew, sip from a paper cup, not drop his clipboard, and wave at the same time.

A truly weird day! As soon as he returned to his dorm room at the Academy, two hours away from Baltimore, he fell onto his bed and did not even undress, only with difficulty pulling off his shoes, throwing them in a random direction.

He instantly fell into a dreamless sleep.

4. Undercover

[United States, Baltimore, Reservoir Hill]

The tables were bursting with exquisite dishes, pyramids of coupe glasses with sparkling wine shimmered in the subdued light, glare danced on the earrings, necklaces, brooches and rings of the ladies, on the cufflinks and in the eyes, glittering with gaiety, of the gentlemen. The voices did not stop, enthusiastic aspirated exclamations and feigned restrained laughter were an inherent soundtrack of the dinner party of Dr. Gasztold, a background leitmotif of a vanity fair, where almost the entire bon ton of Baltimore had gathered.

Lukas Gasztold was not only a successful psychiatrist, a dandy in a three-piece suit, with a texture of fabric perfectly matched to the pattern of his tie and pocket square, but also an incomparable cook: every dish at the party, without exception, was prepared by him himself. Each guest considered it necessary to thank him personally, he smiled at each one with his thin lips, his mask-face remained motionless, his dark eyes looked into the very soul like an X-ray.

“Dr. Gasztold!” Phoebus de Lavender emerged from the crowd, raised his glass of wine, golden as his hair, expressing respect to the host of the evening, “Admit it, you have captured the demon with a magic spell, and he is working for you in the kitchen.”

“You got me.”

Last year, de Lavender had been named the county’s youngest benefactor; Joseph Meyerhoff Symphony Hall and the Lyric Baltimore were fed by his money, the Baltimore Museum of Art and the Walters Art Museum were vying for his sponsorship. He was as handsome, smart, and suave as a flawless Forbes cover. He sipped wine with a perfect hand and a perfect manicure, and smiled with perfect lips on a perfectly shaven face.

“And how do you find it?”

Lukas Gasztold pointed with his gaze at the glass in his interlocutor’s hand, de Lavender smirked.

“Non-alcoholic is terrible, a real punishment for prudes, Dr. Gasztold,” admitted de Lavender. “Tasteless.”

He especially emphasized the last word, he said it almost in a whisper.

“Such is the sacrifice for the sake of beauty,” Dr. Gasztold responded meaningfully, satisfied with the result of the punishment for those who chose the fake wine. “Do you want to live forever?”

“I want to live long.”

“I understand, fatherhood comes with a certain amount of responsibility.”

Gasztold’s gaze slid from the benefactor’s face to the right, de Lavender’s protégé, Wilhelmina Gustavsson, approached them a moment later, and both men turned simultaneously.

“Dr. Gasztold, hello,” she nodded. “A wonderful party, I am very grateful for the invitation.”

Wilhelmina didn’t want to go until the very end, but Phoebus insisted. Every time it was the same: empty masks and talk, news, gossip, dust in the eyes … She was a golden-haired doll in a cardboard box, with a transparent front side, attached with clamps to the back wall, and they cut her wrists and ankles painfully, but she had to endure it and not grumble – for it was a sin for her to complain about her fate.

A couple of weeks ago, she signed a contract with a major label, in a month and a half she will be performing solo with a chamber orchestra at the local philharmonic, announcements have already been ordered from top agencies, and her number of listeners on streaming services is constantly growing – because the new music video has made a splash. She is wearing a dress worth as much as a car, and on her tongue are the most delicious snacks and the best world wines.

She lied to Phoebus that she also drank non-alcoholic wine – out of solidarity … Wilhelmina never got drunk, any cold-blooded psychopath could envy her self-control and distancing from the body, any geisha could envy her ability to please.

“We were just talking about the price of eternal life and youth,” said de Lavender, his green eyes looking at the girl. “I want to see the day when Wilhelmina is on the Broadway stage, when she’s about fifty years old!”

“Miss Gustavsson will be on the Broadway stage much earlier,” Gasztold smiled with just his lips.

“Of course,” de Lavender’s hand fell on his protégé’s back, between her shoulder blades, and lingered for a few seconds. “When she’s fifty, she’ll go there as if it were her own home.”

Phoebus didn’t care what Wilhelmina thought about it – but for her, Broadway seemed too commercialized, too mass, even if it was large-scale and loud. Wilhelmina liked classical productions, opera and theater, more than modern musicals – she would have worked with great pleasure in the Paris Opera or La Scala, though she had completely lost the habit of academic vocals, her performance in a pop style was more in demand.

A little later the host of the evening left them to make another tour of the room, de Lavender was carried away by conversation and disappeared from view, and Wilhelmina Gustavsson was on her own. The dishes were truly superb, Dr. Gasztold knew perfectly well what he was doing … The glass of wine was the second, the gaze of the gray-blue eyes slid absently around the space until it caught on a vaguely familiar image, as if from a forgotten dream – a chestnut head and a thin, lean silhouette.

Wilhelmina blinked, raised her glass to her nose, but did not take a sip. Through the crowd of guests on the opposite side of Dr. Gasztold’s living room, she could see Agent Serret – or rather, the back of his head, his back in a white shirt and suspenders, his narrow waist, his firm ass in tight black pants. In his hands was a tray of glasses, on his face was a toothy smile.

Wilhelmina blinked again.

As Serret turned around to allow a passing couple to take their drinks, Miss Gustavsson had already changed her position, leaving her half-finished drink on the refreshment table, moving smoothly along the wall of dark-framed paintings, the wing of a grand piano lid, violinists, a viola player, and a cellist performing Beethoven’s String Quartet No. 3.

Faces changed one another like in a kaleidoscope, through the hubbub of voices and music it was impossible to discern anything unless one got very close. The waiter’s lot was unenviable – he had to constantly move around the halls … A thin-fingered hand in sparkling bracelets reached for the tray and took the glass, Allex nodded automatically and smiled, his gaze met the gaze of a golden-haired young woman.

Agent Serret’s smile grew broader, his dark eyes widened in surprise. The same artiste, Dr. Gasztold’s patient, recognized him too – and looked at him attentively and directly.

For some reason, Allex got excited, his bow tie constricting his throat.

“Good evening!” he said.

“Good evening,” Miss Gustavsson responded and fluttered her long eyelashes.

Agent Serret’s hair was neatly combed, wavy locks slightly shiny from styling product, falling on a high forehead, his face with a scattering of freckles was clean-shaven, on the left cheek closer to the ear there was a barely noticeable stripe from a fresh cut. Without the shapeless jacket and baggy jeans he looked different, only his bold look and former restlessness gave him away.

“I thought, with your profession, there was no free time for part-time work in catering,” Wilhelmina said.

She understood everything perfectly well – Agent Serret was undercover here. It was unlikely that anyone would recognize him in the guise of a well-groomed waiter … This time the shoes were different, black, shining from wax and brush.

“I can combine both,” the young man smiled. “But I won’t get paid for today’s shift.”

Miss Gustavsson took a sip, stepped aside as guests floated past, but made no move to leave. Allex scanned the crowd, but then returned his gaze to the artiste, who only occasionally glanced at him, standing half-turned.

They were both spies: Serret in the guise of service personnel, and Wilhelmina in her uncharacteristic curiosity and desire to hide it. Phoebus was extremely jealous of any informal communication of hers, even the exchange of remarks at a party; in public he remained polite and courteous, but at home he expressed complaints.

When de Lavender learned that Wilhelmina had been talking to an FBI agent in his absence, he literally lost his temper.

‘Next time, consult me first, my dear Wilhelmina,’ Phoebus pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘You know that every word that comes out of that wonderful mouth of yours can be used against you …’

He meant ‘against us.’ Phoebus always thought only of himself.

How to remain an attractive attribute of a narcissist, a luxury item that he brags about to everyone, and at the same time not to arouse anger and suspicion? Wilhelmina took advantage of Phoebus’s absence during business trips, felt comfortable and free at work without supervision, learned all the ways to fulfill the obligations required of her, and at the same time save time for something personal.

There wasn’t much time … But still there was. The therapy was finally bearing fruit – and Wilhelmina was becoming bolder and more confident.

“Any news on the case of the terrible villain?”

No, she definitely doesn’t want to leave … Allex smiled, dimples appeared on his cheeks, he nodded to the next guest, there were only a few glasses left on the tray.

“Unfortunately,” he shook his head with a theatrical sigh, “I can’t tell you that.”

“I see,” Miss Gustavsson replied.

“But I can tell you something else,” Agent Serret suddenly recollected. “For example,” his lips formed a smile again, and he shook his hair, “about what’s in your glass.”

Wilhelmina knew what was in her glass – she was drinking an Alsatian Riesling – but her natural curiosity got the better of her. She emptied the glass in front of Serret, twirling it around by the stem like a conductor with a baton.

“Yes, please.”

Phoebus was not around, so far as it was possible to continue … Wilhelmina took another glass, but did not drink it. It seemed that she was looking at her interlocutor too much, too openly, she could not help but notice the clear lines of the cheekbones, the outline of the auricle, the soft chestnut curls, bending in elastic half-rings at the neck.

“It’s a Riesling from Alsace, a German style from a French Grand Cru vineyard,” Allex was saying, while Miss Gustavsson was looking at him intently over the top of her glass, her gray-blue eyes unblinking, like an alien cat’s. “It’s funny that the producer doesn’t acknowledge the vineyard classification and doesn’t even put that honorable fact on the label …”

Wilhelmina didn’t smell the wine, but the perfume of the cheap shower gel Agent Serret was using. The deodorant was unscented, as it had been the last time they met, and what she had first taken for styling product was simply the water he had used to wet his hair, causing it to curl into waves.

“Is knowledge about wine also essential for an agent?”

Miss Gustavsson narrowed her eyes slightly and smiled slyly. Allex shrugged his shoulders, the tray tilted, he immediately caught himself and deftly straightened it out, charmingly feigning surprise and fear.

“No, it’s not. I just worked as a bartender while I was studying at the Academy, I had to know.”

So that’s why unscented deodorant – it’s a habit! In bars and restaurants, waiters and other staff are not allowed to use perfume or other strongly scented products.

Wilhelmina nodded. Agent Serret was not so simple! While she was trying to think of something else to ask to fill the silence, de Lavender’s silhouette flashed on the horizon.

“I won’t disturb you any longer, Agent Serret,” Miss Gustavsson said, stepping back, skirting the young man’s periphery. “It was a pleasure talking to you. Goodbye.”

“For me too,” Allex responded, “I was happy to, goodbye, Miss Gustavsson.”

The golden-haired artiste, like a mysterious siren, soon disappeared into the crowd, Agent Serret exhaled, blowing the hair off his forehead, frozen in thought for a few seconds.

When he went to the kitchen for a new batch of glasses, he saw Miss Gustavsson in the company of a golden-haired man, very similar in appearance to her, only with more regular features. A proud posture, a downwards glance, an ironic but cold smile on his lips …

The man’s hand slid across Miss Gustavsson’s shoulder blades in an elusive movement – in the deep neckline of her dress – and if Allex had not been staring at them at that moment, even he would not have noticed what this touch meant. Miss Gustavsson looks up at him, blinks, smiles timidly …

For some reason, Allex thought that Phoebus de Lavender, her stepfather, was much older – this dandy was at most thirty-five.

Or maybe he’s not her stepfather, but her guardian, her patron … Who can figure them out, these bon ton eccentrics, and what’s on their minds? It turns out that her conversation with Allex was just entertainment, out of boredom; fed up with empty chatter with the guests, she decided to chat with an FBI agent dressed as a waiter.

What did he expect? Everyone was looking through him, he was just a doll in a white shirt with a black bow tie, in tight pants. In the suit that Will had brought him the day before, it was incredibly stuffy and unusual, he felt like a guy from a boy band.

The idea of sending Serret into Dr. Gasztold’s party was Howard’s … For clown – masquerades, Allex didn’t mind. He was ready to bet, Dr. Gasztold was also aware of what was happening, Gatti consulted with him about the details of the investigation, and only once did Agent Serret communicate with him personally.

The impression was mixed, Lukas Gasztold gave him goosebumps, and if he were an animal, his fur would stand on end. The psychiatrist was smart, tactful, witty – in his odd jokes that were funny only to him – but as if empty inside.

Allex was too familiar with these associations, too unpleasant … But he did not say anything to Will Gatti or anyone else. His relationship with his father was his personal business, to use it as an argument for his suspicions about Dr. Gasztold’s insincerity would be absurd.