The Death Artist Page 15

  “The other body’s waiting.” Rappaport yawned. “We better get going.”

  Kate gently lowered Elena’s hand to the gurney.

  Rappaport gave the steel drawer a hard shove. It closed with a dull clunk.

  Pruitt’s flesh looked rubbery, waxen.

  “What about that bruise on his chin?” asked Kate.

  Rappaport leaned over the body, poked at Bill Pruitt’s chin with her gloved finger. The flesh went from purple to white to slightly yellow, back to purple in about three seconds. “From the lividity, I’d say it probably happened during the murder, or certainly no later than the afternoon of his death.”

  So it was the perp, their artistic unsub, who slugged Pruitt. Somehow that didn’t make sense to Kate. “Why punch someone while you’re holding them upside down under water? Seems like overkill.”

  Rappaport shrugged.

  “What about Ethan Stein?”

  “The autopsy’s still in progress,” said Rappaport. “Now there’s a case of overkill.” She shook her head. “I’ll send those reports over once they’re done.”

  Kate slid the preliminary reports on Pruitt into her bag along with the ones on Elena. She was more than ready to get out of here, and right now, she felt like firing a gun.

  The smell of gunpowder hung in the low-ceilinged room like a cloud of acid rain. Kate squeezed the trigger, again, and again, and again. The gun jumped in her hand, sent tremors up her arm. She’d almost forgotten the thrill of shooting—all that force right in your hand. The target zipped forward. No bull’s-eyes, but all of her shots would have inflicted serious damage. Not bad for years out of practice. She reloaded, emptied another round, concentrated on keeping her arm steady, her mind clear and focused. She couldn’t help wondering what her friends, Blair and the girls, would think if they could see her now. That group? Every one of them would strap on a gun quicker than you could say “prenuptial agreement.”

  Kate was finishing up her forth round when she spied Maureen Slattery, just a few lanes over. Pumped up on card-board killing, Kate strutted the three lanes over toward the young policewoman.

  Slattery pulled her ear protectors off, dropped back to meet Kate at the screens.

  “Nice shooting,” said Kate, checking out Slattery’s near-perfect round as the target zipped forward.

  “Thanks. How about you?”

  “Rusty.”

  “It doesn’t take long to get it back. It’s like swimming, you know.”

  “Or fucking.”

  Slattery gave her a look. “You got quite a mouth on you, McKinnon.”

  “I majored in Mouthing Off at Saint Anne’s.”

  Maureen’s face broke into a grin. “Saint Mary’s. Bayonne, New Jersey.”

  Kate gave Maureen a conspiratorial look. “Uniform?”

  “The usual plaid number.”

  “How short was your skirt?”

  “Let’s just say it prepared me for those hot pants in vice. You?”

  “Exactly one inch below my panties.” Kate made the sign of the cross. “Virtually impossible for me to bend over. If I dropped a pencil, that was it, lost forever.”

  The two women laughed like schoolgirls.

  Maureen locked her gun into her holster as they headed toward the locker room.

  “Anything new on the cases?” asked Kate.

  “Checked out Perez. His dinner companions—couple of downtown artists—say they dropped him home right after dinner.”

  “But did he stay home?”

  Slattery shrugged. “Don’t know. But he also says he was out of town when Ethan Stein was murdered.”

  “I’m waiting for his calendar. Schuyler Mills’s book, too. Then we’ll see what they say they were doing on the pertinent dates and check it with others.”

  “Right.”

  “How about Mendoza?” asked Kate. “Did his alibi check out?”

  “Mrs. Solana is sticking with her story that he was with her all night.”

  Kate nodded. She was grateful that Maureen had handled Mrs. Solana and Mendoza. She just wasn’t up to dealing with Elena’s mother. “Anything else?”

  “Pruitt’s effects are in the Evidence Room, on three. Check ’em out. Then I’ll tell you the rest. Oh, and wear gloves, and I don’t mean because you’ll mess up the evidence. The room’s a sty.”

  Floor-to-ceiling open metal files. Cardboard boxes. Some of them had been sitting there so long they had spiderwebs thick enough to wear as sweaters.

  The Evidence Room. Kate was almost sorry she’d gotten the clerk to open it up.

  “Over here,” he said, sniffling. He was young, maybe twenty-two, a slight case of acne on his otherwise smooth cheeks. “All the new cases are in this corner, bottom shelf. I think Pruitt should be right over there.” He pointed, then rubbed his nose. “Allergy. Dust, I think.”

  “Boy, do you have the wrong job.” Kate offered him a sympathetic look.

  “Mind if I get outta here?” His nose was twitching.

  Kate took in the grim room, a black spider inching its way along the wall. More than a few minutes and she’d be itching and twitching, too.

  The Pruitt carton was sad. A bar of soap in a small Ziploc bag; a washcloth, also bagged; a larger plastic pouch of toiletries—shaving cream, razor, a bottle of rosewater eau de toilette.

  Within the large carton, there was a smaller one. Kate pulled on the required gloves.

  Right on top, another Ziploc bag with WILLIAM MASON PRUITT printed on it in bold black marker. Kate popped it open, regarded the obvious S and M mask, the crude stitching around the holes for eyes, nose, mouth. Could this possibly be Bill’s? If his name weren’t written on the bag, she’d never believe it. She rooted around in the carton, came up with a stash of magazines, mainly porn. A few of teens, boys and girls, not young enough to qualify as kiddie porn, but cutting it pretty damn close. Kate was fairly disgusted, then somewhat stunned when she found the four or five devoted exclusively to young black transvestites, another group of sadomasochistic porn that made the flaccid mask look tame.

  Under the skin magazines, over two dozen videos, XXX variety. The usual suck-and-fuck pictures on the covers, but these, particularly cheap-looking, lived up to the name of the company—Amateur Films—spelled out in bold black lettering. Maybe something worth watching—someday—if she had the stomach for it.

  Kate leaned into Slattery’s cubicle.

  Maureen flashed a smile. “You saw the stash? The mask?”

  “Yes. And it was a hell of a surprise, believe me. Bill Pruitt.” Kate shook her head. “You never know.”

  “Get ready for more,” said Slattery. “I did a little bar-hopping, the Branding Iron and the Dungeon, down by the piers.” She made a face, mimed a shiver. “You ever been to those places?”

  “Oh, sure. I put my husband in a dog collar every Saturday night, drag him over.” Kate raised an eyebrow. “So?”

  “The back room of the Dungeon—some guy in chains, suspended there for the customers. One’s got a fist up his ass, another’s gagging the guy with his dick.”

  “A regular Hallmark moment.”

  “You got it. Anyhow, our guy, Pruitt? I showed his picture around.”

  “And?”

  “He was a regular. Oh, and you might find this interesting. A list of what they took out of Ethan Stein’s studio. Some very tasty items.”

  1 TUBE CERULEAN BLUE OIL PAINT (on floor, beside body)

  PALETTE KNIFE (as above)

  POLAROID FILM—BACKING PAPER (no Polaroid camera found on premises)

  VICTIM’S CLOTHING (removed before murder)

  blue cotton work shirt, black Levi’s jeans, Calvin Klein knit boxers, white socks

  SWISS ARMY WRISTWATCH (found on chair)

  CERAMIC BOWL—filled with chips (Terra brand)

  DATE BOOK

  2 SETS METAL HANDCUFFS

  BUCK NYLON WHIP

  NIPPLE CLAMPS

  2 SILK MOUTH GAGS WITH BALL COCK


  6 DILDOS—2 DOUBLE-HEADED

  37 MAGAZINES (SADO/MAS)

  Kate scanned the list. “Jesus. No dignity in death, is there?”

  “Not when you’re into this kind of stuff.”

  “Wait a minute—” Kate focused on the last group of items. There were artists she knew of who used that kind of dark subject matter in their artwork—but not Stein. This must have been strictly for personal use. “This is too weird. I mean, Stein and Pruitt, obviously dabbling in the same sexual arena.”

  “Uh-huh.” Slattery handed Kate a one-page typed report. “And get this. A report from the uniforms I sent off with Ethan Stein’s driver’s license. They also showed Stein’s picture around the Dungeon and Branding Iron.” She threw Kate a look. “Pruitt was not the only regular.”

  “Jesus. You think Stein and Pruitt ever met there?”

  “No one can actually put them together at either place, or they just don’t remember.”

  Kate was trying to take it in. “Can it possibly be a coincidence that these two guys had the same predilection, hung out in the same bars, and are both now dead?” Kate shook her head. “When can I see Stein’s personal effects?”

  “Brown’s got his date book and wallet. Ask him.”

  “I will.”

  Slattery shifted gears. “By the way, the old lady, on one, at Solana’s building . . .”

  Kate thought back to the night she found Elena, the glimpse of the old woman’s face through the cracked open door. “Yes. I talked to her. For about ten seconds.”

  “Well, she says she was home, watching TV. Uniform took her statement that night. Says she saw a black man in the apartment building. But that was all he could get outta her. No details. No nothing. I tried, too. Nada.”

  “Let me take a crack at her.”

  19

  A pit stop, that’s all Kate was intending. But someone had left the Post on her desk, and there was no way she could ignore it.

  THE DEATH ARTIST

  The ritualistic murder of artist Ethan Stein may just be the third in a series of brutal murders. Though NYPD officials are vehemently denying any rumors of a serial killer, uniformed police have been canvassing galleries from Chelsea to SoHo to Fifty-seventh Street to Madison Avenue. Apparently, the killer arranges his victims into poses mocking famous paintings.

  One artist interviewed put it succinctly, “The guy’s a regular death artist.” A gallery director, who wished to remain nameless, worried that New York’s finest might have a disdain for people in the art community. This, after a cop, who was making inquiries into the Stein murder, made some disparaging comments about the dead artist’s paintings.

  It is rumored that the NYPD has called upon the services of former cop Katherine McKinnon

  Rothstein, socialite, and best known for her recent PBS series Artists’ Lives. No one at One Police Plaza would confirm or deny this information, and Ms. McKinnon Rothstein was not available for comment.

  Jesus fucking Christ!

  Kate dropped the paper back onto her desk. She never thought she’d be reading the New York Post so damn often.

  The death artist?

  He lays the newspaper carefully onto the table.

  Was it Kate who figured it out? He focuses on the crack of light streaming through the old rotting beams. He hopes so. If not, it would be such a waste. Of course it was Kate. Who else had the information?

  Still, he hadn’t expected her to figure it out quite so soon.

  She’s smart. Smarter than you.

  He grabs his Walkman, rams the tiny headphones into his ears, but the voices are more powerful than any music. Moronmoronmoronmoronmoronmoronmoronmoron . . .

  Hands clasped over his ears. SHUT UP!

  Scattered over the tabletop, the copies he’s had made, Kate with wings and halo, replicated a dozen times. It soothes him to look at them, even chases those voices away. For the moment.

  Lately, he’s been trying to make sense of his dreams, the nightmares, this other person inside him. A brother? A twin? This one who has been with him, it seems, forever—quietly at first, then stronger, until the demands just had to be met.

  Cycles: Dormant. Active. Controlled. Fierce.

  How clearly he can think about it. No way he’s crazy.

  Which one is he? Does he even know?

  He wanted to send her those things. It made him feel so close to her. And now he’ll send another. He lifts a red Magic Marker, uses it to create a border around the image, and then, just for fun, writes HELLO in large block letters.

  But this is just a gift. Just to show her how important she is to him—just for being so smart that she figured out the first part so swiftly. Not that it was such a big deal to figure something out after the fact—and with his help.

  But now he is gearing up for part two.

  No more mementos. These will be warnings.

  His fingers stroke the Walkman’s smooth plastic body.

  Will she get it?

  Well, that’s her problem.

  Careful.

  He turns the Walkman up against the voices.

  Who needs to be careful when you’re lucky and smarter than everyone else?

  His mind is ticking away so fast, excited by the prospect of creating previews of coming attractions.

  Let the games begin.

  20

  The lobby was claustrophobic. The air stagnant. Kate knocked at the back apartment. Someone was home for sure, the television turned up high, a lot of hooting, hollering, and clapping. Either a game show, or Sally Jessy What’s-her-face.

  No response. Kate knocked harder.

  “Vat is it?”

  Kate maneuvered her temporary ID into the three inches of open space. “Mrs. Prawsinsky? Sorry to bother you. Police business.”

  The chain lock released, the door opened. Five feet tall, five-one tops. Kate towered over her. Penciled eyebrows, turquoise-shadowed lids, scarlet lips Lucille Ball-style. Straw-like yellow hair crimped with bobby pins against her scalp like anemic snails. “I already talked to the police,” the woman said. “Lots of them. You want I should make something up new to tell you?”

  “I just need to ask you a few more questions.”

  “So? Ask.” The elderly woman folded her thin arms across the top of her flowered housedress.

  “You said you saw a black man here, in the building.”

  The old woman nodded, but that was it.

  “Can you describe the man?”

  “Honey. Can you tell them apart?”

  Kate stifled an urge to slap the woman. But no, she had a job to do, and it was not delivering a lecture on cultural diversity. This was a lonely woman; she had to work with that. “Mrs. Prawsinsky,” she said warmly. “You’re a woman living alone in a tough neighborhood. I can really appreciate that.”

  “Dahlink, you don’t know the half of it—”

  “Oh, I do know,” Kate said patiently. “That’s why I’m sure you have to be extra diligent.” She offered the old woman a sobering look. “Now I sense you’re a very observant woman. Is there anything—and I mean anything at all—you can remember about this strange man in your building? I mean, was he young, old, tall, short?”

  The woman squeezed her eyes shut, pursed her thin lips. Crimson lipstick creeped into vertical whistle marks. “Medium. I’d say he was medium.”

  “See, you remember plenty. That’s terrific.” Medium? That tells me absolutely nothing. “What else?”

  “I would say he was between thirty and forty. And . . . ” She squinted again. “Skinny. Very skinny.” She opened her eyes, smiled, proud of herself.

  “That was very helpful, Mrs. Prawsinsky.” Kate was relieved. The description eliminated Willie—he was young, short, solidly built.

  “What else? Any distinguishing marks about him? You know, anything special?”

  “What do you mean special, dahlink?”

  “Scars? A limp? Like that.”

  She shook her old head. “No. Noth
ing. But . . . now I can see his face.” She squinted again, getting into it.

  “And?”

  “Mmm . . . It was a couple of nights before they found her, the girl. It was night, late. I know it was late because I was watching that Nick at Nite station. You know, the oldies station. My favorite.”

  “Oh, right . . . ”Kate took a deep breath. “Mine, too.”

  That did the trick. Minutes later Kate found herself in Mrs. Prawsinsky’s cramped living room, an exact duplicate in layout of Elena’s. But where Elena’s desk would be—the focal point of Elena’s spare apartment—was Mrs. Prawsinsky’s twenty-two-inch color TV, its static glow casting overgrown rhododendrons and plastic slipcovers in shimmering electric tones. Kate perched on Mrs. Prawsinsky’s plastic-slipcovered sofa, balancing a cup of weak Lipton tea on her knees.

  “Me. I watch every night,” Mrs. Prawsinsky said. “I Love Lucy, I Dream of Jeannie, Bewitched.” She lifted a bowl with packets of Sweet’n Low. “Sugar, dahlink?” Kate shook her head no. “I love the mother, you know, Agnes Moorehead. My friend Bunny, God rest her soul, said I look like her, Agnes Moorehead, on Bewitched.” She raised her chin, posed.

  Kate affirmed Bunny’s assessment. Mrs. Prawsinsky snorted a laugh, but it was obvious she was pleased. “Anyway, I wasn’t watching Bewitched. It was The Dick Van Dyke Show. The old one with Mary Tyler Moore as his wife before she had her own show, the single-girl show. A very good show, too, but not as good as Dick Van Dyke.”

  “Frankly, Mrs. Prawsinsky, I never got over Rhoda’s marriage. I never thought that guy Joe was right for her.”

  “Oy vey! Are you ever right. Vat a mistake. She should have gone right on living upstairs from Mary. Such good friends, those two. Adorable.”

  “So . . .” Kate took another breath. “You were watching Dick Van Dyke and you saw the man—”

  “Yes.” Now the whole face was squinting up—a prune, no a raisin, Kate thought. “Let me start at the beginning. It’s coming back now. I thought I forgot, but . . . let me think . . .”