The Death Artist Page 27

  She stared at the image. How should she think about this one? There was no crime scene photo to compare it with.

  She had had the large coffee-table book on the work of Ed Kienholz delivered to the station house, and now flipped pages until she found the piece she was looking for.

  The Birthday, 1964. Tableau. 84 x 120 x 60 inches.

  Mannequin, Lucite, gynecologist’s examination table,

  suitcase, clothing, paper, fiberglass, paint, polyester

  resin.

  She gazed at the picture in the book, then back at the enlargement.

  Could those crossed-out dates—or the circled ones—be someone’s birthday? Maybe. But whose? And what about the card, the joker, which was practically hidden in the pattern of the black and white floor tiles?

  Kate just didn’t know.

  Had Damien Trip left this to drive her crazy? If so, it was working. But would Trip have sent her a teaser when he had just been interrogated, when he was clearly under suspicion?

  Kate stared at the joker. Maybe Brown was right, that it was a symbol for the killer himself, that he saw himself as a joker, playing with her, with the cops.

  But what else?

  Checkerboard floors? Kate thought a moment. Flemish paintings almost always had checkerboard floors. What else did they have? Symbols. Everything in a Flemish painting was standing in for something else. So what could a joker be?

  A jester? A comedian?

  No. Something to do with art.

  A joker? A card?

  Neither of those made any sense. What else?

  A deck of cards? Fifty-two. Numbers. Pictures. Suits. Betting. Dealing.

  She thought about the victims: Elena. Pruitt. Ethan Stein.

  Performance artist. Museum president. Minimal painter.

  Was the guy breaking down the art world? Picking off representatives? Painter. Performer . . . Kate stared at the reproductions. A card. Dealing. A dealer. An art dealer!

  Of course. It had to be. Kate’s adrenaline was pumping about as fast as her frustration was mounting. Which art dealer? And how to find out?

  Back to the enlargement. It was here. Somewhere. Kate knew it. Felt it. The guy was more than playing with her. He was testing her. The clock. The calendar. Something in there.

  But what?

  Her mind was clicking away, but she just couldn’t get at it.

  She slammed the Kienholz book shut.

  There was not much time left—and someone was in for a very unpleasant birthday present.

  “The piece is called The Birthday.” Kate paced, her low heels click-clacking on the conference room’s hard cement floor. “He’s got to be indicating someone’s birthday.”

  “Like whose?” Mead sucked his teeth.

  “An art dealer’s. He’s not just making art. He’s choosing his victims as representatives of the art world: Elena Solana’s the performance artist, Pruitt’s the museum man, Stein’s the traditional-type painter.”

  “You call white paintings traditional?” said Slattery.

  “Nowadays, if you paint, you’re traditional,” said Kate.

  Mead sighed heavily. “But how can we possibly get the birthdays of hundreds of art dealers in New York?”

  “It’d be in their bios.” Kate thought a second. “We could check Who’s Who in American Art. Of course, that would be thousands to go through, and not everyone includes their birthdays—especially the women.”

  “Come on, people.” Mead tugged at his bow tie. “I don’t want to lose another vic to this guy.”

  “It’s all in here.” Kate tapped the reproduction. “In the picture. Everything’s a visual clue.”

  “Okay,” said Slattery. “So what do the circled dates mean?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure that out. If it’s not the date of the crime—and I don’t think it is, since both of those dates have passed—then what else?”

  “A statistic?” said Brown.

  “Or numerology?” Slattery offered.

  “I don’t think so,” said Kate. “The guy seems to be more specific than that. What numbers are specific?”

  “Phone numbers,” said Brown.

  “Not enough for a phone number.” Kate’s foot was tapping out a nervous tune on the concrete floor. “The tenth and the thirteenth?”

  “Ten-thirteen,” said Slattery. “The time of the murder.”

  “I’d stick with eleven,” said Kate, checking her watch.

  So did Mead. “Shit. It’s ten-fifty, people.”

  “Wait a second. What about an address?” Kate’s foot stopped tapping. “Tenth Street. Thirteenth Street? No. Wait. Thirteenth Street and Tenth Avenue. The Meat Market. Chelsea. Of course. A gallery. That makes sense if he’s going to do an art dealer.” She quick-turned to Mead. “Randy. You’ve got to get cars out to Thirteenth and Tenth Avenue—to every gallery along the street. ASAP.” Then to Slattery. “Maureen, you still have that Gallery Guide?”

  Maureen had already gotten it out, ran her finger along the Chelsea street map. “There are four—no, five—galleries along Thirteenth.”

  “Any on Tenth Avenue at Thirteenth?”

  “Uh . . . Just a restaurant.”

  “Go back to Thirteenth Street. The Kienholz piece is about a woman’s violation. So we’re most likely looking for a woman gallery dealer.”

  Slattery read through the listing. “Gallery 505—could be either sex. Valerie Kennedy Gallery—that’s one. Art Resource International—maybe. Amanda Lowe Gallery—for sure.”

  Mead already had the cellular to his ear, barking instructions. “Six cars already on the way,” he said, clicking off. “Ambulance, too.”

  “Get someone to contact those dealers ASAP,” said Kate. “The galleries are probably closed, so get home numbers and addresses.”

  “Get someone to go on-line,” Brown barked at a uniform. “Of those galleries, see who might be having a birthday, and call us en route.”

  “I’m coming with you,” said Kate.

  “All right,” said Mead. “Go with Slattery—and let her drive.”

  Amanda Lowe has barely gotten her Prada jacket off when he grabs her, whispers, “Happy birthday,” one hand around her throat, the other pressing a rag soaked with some awful-smelling chemical into her nose and mouth.

  The ambulance had shut off its siren, but the cop cars’ beacons were still streaking blips of stark light across Thirteenth Street.

  The young uniformed cop looked shaken, his face gray-green, as if he was going to be sick. “She’s in there. Second floor. Above the gallery.”

  “You found her?” asked Brown.

  “Me and Diaz.” He nodded to another uniform, sitting on the stairs in front of the Amanda Lowe Gallery. “A couple of detectives are up there now.” He bit his lip, seemed close to tears. Brown patted the guy’s shoulder as he headed into the building.

  The scene was so surreal Kate could barely take it in.

  Amanda Lowe was strapped onto her sleek dining room table. Six long knives in her belly. Handles jutting out exactly like the Lucite cylinders of the Kienholz piece. Blood on the table, dripping onto the rug—unctuous, oily water-falls. Her coat had been hung on the wall beside the table, just as in the reproduction. There was even a suitcase on the floor.

  A detective was crouched beside the scene. He turned, nodded acknowledgment at Mead, said, “Look at this.”

  Mead took a step closer. Kate peered over his shoulder.

  Just beside the suitcase, on the pale rug, ragged, shaky lettering.

  Kate looked more closely. It was writing, in blood:

  DEATH ARTIST

  “Jesus,” said Brown. “He likes the name.”

  “Yes,” said Kate. “And now he’s signing his work.”

  34

  First you have him, then you don’t,” said Clare Tapell. “The press is having a field day with this, Randy! The mayor is getting twenty calls a day from art world mucky-mucks screaming about their safety and the
police department’s ineptitude—and then he calls me.” Tapell took a long breath.

  It was bad enough knowing that the chief of police didn’t like him, but to be chewed out in front of his squad and a half dozen other homicide detectives was just too much for Randy Mead. “I can’t help it if some reporter on the scene goes blabbing . . .” He shook his head, sucked his teeth. “If McKinnon hadn’t screwed up—”

  Kate didn’t even flinch. She continued to stare down at the newspaper in her lap, would not bother to acknowledge, or shoot, a drowning man. She flipped a page, loudly.

  Brown said, “McKinnon was in pursuit of a suspect.”

  Tapell bore down on Mead again. “You should have contacted Operations, Randy. Had a SWAT team called in.”

  “There wasn’t time,” Mead whined.

  “There’s always time.” Tapell looked at him with disgust. She folded her hands onto the conference table, let loose with a big sigh. “Okay. First. Damage control. I’ve already held a press conference, so there’s no need for anyone in this room—anyone in the police department—to say a single word to the press.” She eyed the detectives. “You all got that? Second. If the death artist makes a move—a hiccup—I want to know about it. Understood?”

  “As soon as he contacts me,” said Kate. “But Randy is right. There wasn’t enough time.”

  Mead’s head jerked in Kate’s direction, bow tie practically strangling him, mouth open in surprise at her defense of him.

  “The ME says Amanda Lowe was dead less than a hour when the body was discovered,” said Brown. “We were damn close.”

  “Close doesn’t really count, does it, Detective Brown?” Tapell checked her watch. “Mitch Freeman from the FBI will join us any minute. He’s a criminal psych. He’s been going over the reports and crime scene pictures and he’ll tell us what he thinks.”

  “We already know about our guy’s kinks,” said Mead.

  “Well, you don’t have a choice, Randy. So you’ll hear it all again.”

  “They taking over the case?” asked Slattery.

  “We have to send all evidence, old and new, to Quantico, keep the Bureau informed on a daily basis, and we have to listen to them,” said Tapell. “That’s all I know right now.”

  “I’ve been hearing a lot about you,” said Mitch Freeman, offering his hand to Kate.

  “I can only imagine,” said Kate. Freeman was maybe forty-five, dirty-blond hair, rugged features. Not at all what Kate had expected. No crew cut. No suit. No attitude either.

  Freeman took a seat between Kate and Brown and spread his papers on the table. “I’ll tell you how I’ve been profiling him,” he said, getting his wireless reading glasses in place. “Organized, obviously. Intelligent. Also obvious. He doesn’t appear to lose control—or hasn’t yet. But he might, as the intervals between crimes decrease, or if he thinks you’re getting closer to him.”

  “But he seems to want us close,” said Brown. “Why else would he be in contact with McKinnon?”

  “Some of these guys get off on the contact, like to flirt with getting caught because the publicity is so damn exciting to them.” Freeman took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes. “Thinking criminals like your boy tend to be not only articulate and extroverted, but highly narcissistic. They like attention.”

  “Could he be living a double life?” asked Kate.

  “Absolutely. I’d guess he’s got a safe house where he can act out.” Freeman rubbed his hand over his chin. “Eventually these guys start to break down. The organized eventually become disorganized. That’s when they start to mess up and get caught.”

  “How long will that be?” asked Tapell.

  “No way to know.” Freeman put his glasses back on, regarded the most recent crime scene photos of Amanda Lowe. “Unfortunately, these don’t indicate that he’s losing it. In fact, he seems to be getting more complicated.”

  “Excuse me, Dr. Freeman.” Kate laid a hand on his arm. “I think you may be confusing something here.”

  “Let the man speak, McKinnon.” This from Mead, who hadn’t uttered a single sound, other than sucking his teeth, since the Quantico psychiatrist had showed up.

  “No. Please,” said Freeman.

  “Well, I think the complexity has to do with the art the killer is trying to create, or copying. His next one might be totally simple. I think it depends entirely on the art he’s referencing.”

  “I see. Of course.” Freeman nodded.

  Kate pushed her hair behind her ears. “I certainly agree that he’s intelligent and organized. But rather than profile him as an ordinary psychotic, how about looking at him as an artistic personality?”

  “Go on,” said Freeman.

  “Artists,” said Kate, “they’re vain, but insecure. They want attention, like you said, but hide behind their work. They like to be alone, but want their work in the public eye. Artists are all about the work,” she says. “Maybe we can figure out certain things about this guy from his work, his—forgive me—his art.”

  “How so?” said Freeman, studying her intently.

  “Well, I’d say he’s got a fairly classical eye. The Death of Marat and the Titian painting are both very classical paintings. Even the Kienholz, which looks bizarre, is a very structured, classical piece. Plus, he’s choosing real art. No crap. So, I think he’s serious and intelligent. Though that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s been schooled. He could be self-taught. If so, he’s got access to an art library—or art books, at the very least. I don’t think he could keep all those art details in his head.”

  Freeman folded his arms across his chest, leaned back in the chair. “Interesting.”

  “You mentioned before about the intervals between the crimes decreasing,” said Kate. “Is that always the case?”

  “Pretty much,” said Freeman. “The only thing that slows these guys down, or stops them, is death. Theirs.”

  “Why does he keep contacting McKinnon?” asked Tapell.

  “Obsession,” said Freeman. “A very strong emotion.” He turned to Kate. “Can you think of any reason why this guy has focused on you?”

  “I’ve been thinking and thinking about it,” said Kate. “My book? My TV show? Maybe, to him, I’m the big expert. Maybe he wants my approval, or—”

  “You’d better be careful,” said Freeman. “These guys have a way of changing their minds about who and what they like. He’s obviously obsessed with you, but . . .” He shook his head.

  “What?”

  “Well, I don’t want to scare you, but these guys almost always confuse love and hate. Ultimately, they want to . . . kill their love object.”

  “Exactly what my friend at the FBI said.”

  “Liz Jacobs?”

  “You know her?”

  “No. But I know she’s in town, and that the two of you used to work together.”

  “You guys don’t miss much, do you?” said Kate. She added a smile.

  “We try not to,” said Freeman, who returned the smile, but it faded fast. “Look, I’m sorry to confirm what your friend said.”

  “We got a man stationed at McKinnon’s house,” said Mead.

  “Good idea,” said Freeman. “But you’ve really got to be on your guard, McKinnon. And I mean every minute.”

  “I’m kind of hoping that he’s enjoying the game too much—manipulating me, playing with me—to want to go and ruin it by killing me.”

  “Could be so,” said Freeman. “But eventually he’ll tire of the game.”

  “He’s changed the rules,” said Kate. “Now he’s feeding us the art clues before he strikes. So he needs me around to figure them out.”

  “That’s good,” said Freeman. “But no guarantee.”

  “What about a bodyguard for Kate?” Tapell asked.

  “Could scare him off,” said Freeman.

  “And we need him close,” said Kate.

  “We’ll keep an eye on her,” said Mead. “Meanwhile, Crime Search is poring over every inch of the last
crime scene.” He handed Freeman the report. “These are brand-new, prelims. You might not have seen them.”

  “Have you got Mobile on standby, Randy?” Tapell asked.

  “Yeah.” Mead nodded. “And I’ve pulled in another dozen suits from General.”

  Freeman pushed himself up from the chair. “I’ll give my report to the Bureau, Chief Tapell. They’ll be in touch.” He turned back to Kate. “Be careful,” he said. “I mean it.”

  That last time was close. Too close. A half hour earlier and the cops would have walked in on him, ruined everything.

  But you did it.

  Truthfully, it’s hard to believe no one heard her screaming, the drug having worn off quicker than expected. He’d have thought a woman like that—supposedly interested in art—would let him do his work in peace. But no. One lousy stab into her gut and she’s squealing like a fucking banshee. Good thing she lived alone in that place, and that he’d brought that fishbowl to Krazy Glue over her mouth. That shut her up.

  “But I managed it,” he says aloud. “Didn’t I? I mean, it was . . . beautiful.”

  He thrusts metal pushpins through the recent photographs, stabs them into the damp, porous wall in a crooked row.

  “Look at that, will you. I did a great job. Look. Look.” He yanks the earphones out. “Will you look, man. At the way her eyes are wide open, the way I draped her dress, removed her shoes. Exactly like that fucking Kienholz. No. Better. My piece is more . . .” He searches for the right word. “Alive.”

  But now the only response is the coo of pigeons above, the lapping waves of the river. Did he give her too much information? Hell, that’s what made it fun. Of course he knew she’d figure it out. Just not so fast.

  Caution.

  “Don’t worry. I hear you. I’m adding something to slow her down next time.”

  Like what?

  “Like moving the location.”

  Not bad.

  Jesus. Was that a compliment? He can hardly believe it. He feels, for the moment, the most exquisite sensation of—can it be?—approval.