The Death Artist Page 21

  This was definitely not what she’d had in mind.

  But Kate would not let her mood get the better of her. No. She’d have a little fun.

  She checked herself in the bar’s antique mirror. Yes, she’d had better days, but it was not her worst. She pushed her hair into shape, strutted half the length of the bar, hesitated a second until she was sure Richard had spotted her. Then, a quick scan down the bar. A few steps and she laid one hand on a Calvin Klein suit, the other on a Mr. Armani, then leaned in between the two of them. He stumbled back.

  A toss of her hair, a bedroom smile, her best Lauren Bacall purr: “Oh, sorry to bother you, gentlemen, but I seem to have forgotten my cigarettes.” The suits started a fumbling contest for cigarettes and lighters.

  Mr. Armani practically vaulted off his barstool. “Hey, join us.”

  “Please,” piped in Mr. Klein. “Bartender”—he gestured—“a drink for the lady.”

  Kate rewarded them with another warm flash of her hazel eyes, then a quick look in Richard’s direction. “I’d love to, but—” She angled herself to the left so that Richard got a full view of the show, then added another dazzling smile. “Really, I would just love to, but—” One more smile. “Thank you, gentlemen.” She felt their eyes follow her as she sauntered across the room.

  Richard was already on his feet.

  “Darling,” she said, unable to hide a mischievous grin.

  “Ah, finally,” he said to the laughing reporter. “The late Mrs. Richard Rothstein. My wife, Kate.”

  Kate took the reporter’s hand. “Am I terribly late? I’m so sorry.”

  “That’s all right,” the reporter said. “Your husband’s been the most delightful company.”

  “He always is. Aren’t you, darling?” Kate raised an eyebrow in his direction.

  “But I’ve really got to be going.” The reporter stood, took Richard’s hand. “And don’t you worry about the tone of my article, Rich.”

  Rich? Kate’s other eyebrow arched.

  “Thank you, Kathy.” Richard smiled, did that almost-wink again.

  “Something wrong with your eye, dear? Your conjunctivitis isn’t coming back, is it?” Kate quick-turned to the young reporter. “Oh, it was just awful. Oozy and—ugh, never mind. It’s too disgusting to even talk about.”

  Richard whisked the young reporter away, walking her to the front of the restaurant, holding her hand too long as they said good-bye.

  No, she would not be angry. He was just paying her back for her performance. Still, she couldn’t resist serving up an aperitif in her best Walter Cronkite voice: “No. Really, Your Honor. We’re just good friends. And honestly, I had no idea she was thirteen.”

  “And you’re what—sixteen? Miss Flirting-at-the-Bar?”

  “I was simply bumming a cigarette.”

  “Uh-huh. You left the poor bastards drooling all over their twelve-hundred-dollar suits.”

  Kate kissed him, pushed the curls off his forehead. “I’m sorry I’m late. Really. Anyway, it gave you time to slobber all over Ms. New York Times.” She smiled. “Forgive me?”

  “This time.”

  She signaled the waiter for a drink.

  “How was your day? Any more bruises?”

  “Just on my heart.” Kate downed her martini as soon as it arrived.

  Richard looked at her with concern. “You okay?”

  Kate signaled for another drink, the flirty, giddy mood she had manufactured a moment ago deflating. “I don’t like what I’m discovering about Elena—” Her mind played a string of images: Trip, Washington, Elena dancing nude. She gulped half of her second drink, tried to wash that last picture away.

  “Like what?”

  “There are certain things that we never know about another person—no matter how close we are.” Richard stared into his tumbler of Scotch. “Maybe we aren’t meant to disclose every bit of ourselves.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that, Counselor. Something you’re not telling me?”

  Richard did not look up from his drink. “Don’t be silly.”

  “Did Elena ever talk to you about boyfriends?”

  “That was your department, wasn’t it?”

  “Apparently not.” For a moment, Kate felt tears burning behind her eyes. Who cared about the boyfriends Elena did, or did not, tell her about? She was dead. Gone. Never coming back. She took another hit of her martini.

  “You all right, darling?” He touched her hand.

  “I’ll survive. I hope.”

  “I’m sort of counting on it.”

  “By the way, Bill Pruitt may have had a more interesting social life than anyone ever suspected.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Possibly sadomasochistic sex.”

  “Nothing about that guy would surprise me.” Richard scowled, reached for his Scotch. “Any news on his stolen artwork?”

  “Nothing yet. Does that surprise you, I mean that he may have been involved with art theft?”

  “Yes—and no. I never trusted that guy.”

  “Or liked him.”

  “You know anyone who did?”

  No, she didn’t. But at the moment, none of it was making much sense. Pruitt, Elena, Ethan Stein—why were the three of them killed? What was the connection? But there was just too much to think about at the moment. Her brain was over-loaded. Tomorrow; like Scarlett O’Hara, she’d think about it tomorrow.

  26

  A decent night’s sleep with the aid of a sleeping pill and Kate was ready to think it all through. She arranged her copies of the crime scene photos on her corkboard wall, beside them the corresponding art reproductions.

  BILL PRUITT—THE DEATH OF MARAT by Jacques-Louis David

  ETHAN STEIN—THE FLAYING OF MARSYAS by Titian

  ELENA—Picasso SELF-PORTRAIT

  Now she filled in more index cards with names and notes.

  DAMIEN TRIP

  Suspect?

  Elena’s boyfriend

  Filmmaker—probably pornographer

  Last saw victim?

  DARTON WASHINGTON

  Suspect?

  Involved with Elena?

  Music producer/Art lover

  Worked on Elena’s CD

  Last saw victim?

  JANINE COOK

  Friend of victim (Solana)

  Prostitute?

  Knew Damien Trip

  Mrs. Prawsinsky

  Witness (Solana)

  Saw skinny black man in hallway night of murder

  Winnie Pruitt

  Mother of victim (Pruitt)

  Says victim had painting, now missing

  Kate pinned everything onto the wall, stood back, considered what was missing, and immediately started printing information onto more index cards, this time the particulars pertaining to each victim, which she pinned beneath their crime scene photos and art reproductions.

  PRUITT

  Museum president/Financier

  Drowned

  STEIN

  Artist/Minimal painter

  Skinned alive

  SOLANA

  Performance artist

  Stabbed

  Kate surveyed the wall. What was it she was missing?

  * * *

  Row after row of identical cubicles, all beige and blond wood, half-walls covered in corkboard, thick tan carpeting that swallowed the beat of Kate’s heels. The only sounds: ringing phones, tapping keyboards, muffled voices. FBI Headquarters, Manhattan.

  Kate found her friend in the middle of the second row—or was it the third? She’d lost track.

  “It must be you,” said Liz, squinting up at the name tag Kate had stuck to her cashmere sweater. “Behind those shades.”

  “This place gives me the creeps,” said Kate.

  “Shhh.” Liz rolled her eyes, whispered, “This is the FBI, honey. We don’t say things like that here.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  A couple of ramrod-straight agents, both tall, with
identical crew cuts, passed without so much as a nod or a blink.

  Kate leaned down, stage-whispered, “Replicants?”

  “Oh, Jesus. You’re going to get me fired.”

  “Sorry.” Kate bit her lip.

  “So, about the checks you want me to run—who and what?” Liz whispered, then eyed the cubicles on either side of hers—one empty, in the other a guy with headphones over his ears.

  “Ethan Stein—one of the vics. Also a guy named Damien Trip. Another named Darton Washington.” Kate pulled up a chair beside Liz. “I went on-line, but couldn’t find anything on either Trip or Washington. Stein had a website for his art, but nothing else.”

  “What exactly are you looking for?”

  “Basically anything and everything you can dig up on them—all the way back to grade school. Is that possible?”

  “I can go into the FBI website. You wouldn’t believe what they’ve got in there.” Another furtive peek at the guy with the earphones. He wasn’t listening. “What were those names again?”

  Kate supplied the info while Liz tapped one code after another into her computer.

  Fifteen minutes later Kate was collecting a sheaf of papers the printer had spit out. “Have I learned this computer shit, or what?”

  “Impressive,” said Kate.

  “Me, or the info I got you?”

  “Both.”

  Kate read through them quickly. The more she read, the faster her adrenaline pumped.

  Kate huddled around the conference table with Mead, Brown, and Slattery.

  Brown tugged on a pair of plastic gloves, laid a small soft-covered book on the table. “Ethan Stein’s appointment book.” He opened to a flagged page. “Ten A.M., D. Washington. Studio visit.”

  “Let me see that,” said Kate, pulling on gloves. “This is only two weeks before Ethan Stein was killed. Jesus, Brown, I wish you’d shown me this before I talked to Washington.”

  “The lab was going over it until now. And let’s make absolutely certain it’s your D. Washington.”

  “He owns one of Stein’s paintings,” said Kate. “I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet. Any other significant names in Stein’s diary I should know about?”

  “Slattery’s done the checking.”

  “Thirty-nine personal interviews with gallery owners and directors,” said Slattery. “About a dozen had their names in Stein’s date book. Lotta uptight people in your business, McKinnon.”

  “Please,” said Kate. “I’m not in the business.”

  “Whatever.” Slattery shrugged. “The only suspicious character so far is a guy who owns the”—she surveyed her list—“the Ward Wasserman Gallery, on Fifty-seventh. Snooty place, I’ll tell you. Anyway, the owner, Wasserman, has his name in Stein’s book six or seven times. He got very agitated when I asked about his whereabouts on the nights of the murders.”

  “I know Ward Wasserman,” said Kate. “He’s a lovely man. A tad high-strung, that’s all.”

  “Well, he may be lovely,” said Slattery, rolling her eyes, “but in case you didn’t know, he now controls the Ethan Stein estate. And his gallery’s not wasting any time. Wasserman is already planning a memorial show. And I asked about prices. Twenty to thirty grand for white paintings seems like a shitload of moola to me.”

  “Not really,” Kate said, then modified her statement when she saw the three sets of incredulous eyes. “Well, yes, of course, thirty thousand is a lot of money. What I mean is that it’s not a lot for an artist of reputation, who is now dead. Stein may have been in a slump recently, but he was an important part of the Post-Minimal art movement.” Mead, Brown, and Slattery continued to stare at her, bewildered. “Post-Minimal,” she said. “As in after the first wave of Minimal art. Stein’s white paintings are paintings about painting—about painting language.”

  “You mind putting that into our language?” said Mead.

  “Think of it like science—one discovery or invention leading to another. The same is true of art. Say one artist reduces painting to pure color. Then another, like Stein, reduces it to pure white brushstrokes. It’s an idea of what painting can be at its most basic, in its most reductive state—just strokes on a canvas.”

  Mead yawned.

  “If you say so,” said Slattery, “but I’m still putting a tail on Wasserman. The guy had a lot to gain by Stein’s death.”

  “Fine,” said Kate. “But it’s a waste of time. Ward Wasserman is a lamb.”

  “I think that’s what they said about Ted Bundy,” said Mead.

  “By the way, I went over the copies of those calendars—Perez’s and Mills’s—that you sent over,” said Slattery. “Perez recreated his Palm Pilot, but I’d say it’s pretty loose. Mills, on the other hand, has his life mapped out by the minute—when he ate lunch, with whom, practically tells you when he took a leak.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” said Kate. “He’s a meticulous guy. Have you cross-checked their alibis for the nights of the murders?”

  “Some,” said Slattery. “A few still pending.”

  “Get on it,” said Mead.

  “Clearly Mills and Perez had opportunity,” said Kate. “They were both there that night, at Elena’s last performance.”

  “Yeah, but what about motive?” asked Mead.

  Kate shook her head. “None that I can think of.”

  “I got the latest stolen-art printout from Interpol.” Brown laid it on the table. “No altarpieces this month.”

  “Maybe not. But it was on an earlier report I saw at the Delano-Sharfstein Gallery.” Kate laid the card of Ethan Stein’s White Light on the table, explained where she got it. “Damien Trip had this reproduction of Stein’s work right on his desk. Also, he lied when he said that he and Elena Solana had broken up six months ago. Her friend Janine Cook says she saw them together, Elena and Trip, about a week ago.” Kate glanced up at Mead. “I want to search Trip’s place.”

  Mead sucked his teeth. “You can bring him in for questioning, McKinnon. But for a search you need reasonable cause.”

  “Damien Trip was Elena’s boyfriend. You know the statistics. A woman’s murdered, you check the husband or boyfriend. Eight times out of ten, he’s your man.” Kate looked from Mead to Brown. “Okay. Look. Suppose Trip did kill her. Just suppose. And now I’ve talked to him. So now, he’s a little spooked.”

  “But you didn’t ID yourself as police,” said Brown. “Why would a friend of the vic’s spook him?”

  “Must you have all the answers, Brown?”

  “Only the right ones.” He leaned back in his chair.

  “Brown’s just trying to watch out for you,” said Mead.

  “Everything’s by the book nowadays. You screw up, McKinnon, your ass is on the line.” He tugged at his pink-and-blue-striped bow tie. “Of course, with the chief of police as your friend, it’ll be my ass that’s fried, not yours.”

  “I can live with that.” Kate offered a wry smile. “Okay, you want some reasonable cause?” She retrieved the large stack of printouts she got from Liz. “Lots of interesting info here.”

  “Where’d you get all this?” Mead plucked a paper from Kate’s hands.

  “FBI Manhattan. I’ve got a friend there.”

  “Seems like you’ve got friends everywhere, McKinnon.”

  “I’m a popular girl, what can I say?” She offered Mead an arched eyebrow. “Nothing terribly interesting about Darton Washington except that he has a juvey record, though it does not say what, exactly. I’ll have to check further. But look at this on our boy Trip. First of all, he was arrested for transporting minors across state lines when he was twenty-five. And this—” She folded Trip’s printout for Mead. “Art school, Pratt Institute, Brooklyn, New York. Fine arts major. Trip’s got the art background for these crimes. Now look at this.” She handed Mead a printout on Ethan Stein. “His Pratt Institute transcript. Also fine arts. And exactly the same years as Trip. They were classmates, for Christ’s sake.” Kate flipped another page. “Check out T
rip’s school record. Here: Suspended from high school three times for fighting; once for punching out a teacher. The boy has a violent temper. And if you look at the Pratt transcript, you’ll see Trip failed painting. Failed advanced drawing, too. About the only thing he was good at, according to his painting teacher, was copying—which is particularly interesting, don’t you think? He left school—or rather, was asked to leave—in the middle of his junior year. Now look at Stein’s transcript: Top of the class. Graduated with honors.”

  “That doesn’t prove Trip killed him,” said Mead.

  “No,” said Kate. “But it confirms a connection between the two men. They knew each other.” She shuffled through more papers. “Somewhere in here is Trip’s NYU film school transcript. He only made it through one semester. Another failure. Oh, and there are a few foster-parent reports regarding Trip’s early years. He was always in trouble.” Kate shook her head. “Though the kid had it rough, I’ll admit that.”

  “Oh, another poor little orphan, huh?” said Slattery.

  “Get me copies of all this,” said Mead, looking over the FBI printouts. “Plus anything else you have on Trip—the drugs—everything. I’ll get you the warrant. But you’re taking Brown along with you.”

  “I can handle a search,” said Kate.

  “I’m sure you can,” said Mead. “But you’re going with backup.”

  What to add to the reproduction? Maybe this, maybe that. The process almost as much fun as the act.

  And now that he’s documenting his work, even better.

  In a long row along the pitted wall, he pins up the Polaroids of Ethan Stein: close-ups of the artist’s leg, then chest, the skin being removed in ever-expanding inches of gore.

  Lovely. So lovely it causes his cock to strain inside his shorts. He won’t look at the pictures right now. It’s too distracting.

  He sits back, wonders if she’s figured out that little piece of tape he sent her. If so, she must be going crazy. And a mind clouded with emotion, well . . .

  He studies the reproduction in front of him, the chair, the coat, the figure with those glass rods shooting out of her belly. Ethan Stein’s scene was relatively simple. This next one is going to be complicated.