The Death Artist Read online

  “I didn’t think you could punch anyone either,” said Kate. She eased herself onto Richard’s leather couch. “Suppose Bill’s embezzling was the reason he was killed?”

  “Impossible.” He rolled the paperweight back and forth, back and forth. “Arlen and I were the only ones who knew about it.”

  “Did you and Arlen actually think I would go blabbing that information around indiscriminately?” Kate took a deep breath. “You should know me better than that, Richard.”

  “If you knew it, you might not have had a choice but to divulge it—and there was no need—it obviously had nothing to do with Bill’s murder—or with the death artist.” Richard’s eyes widened. “God. Do you realize I was there, at Pruitt’s, just before that maniac killed him?”

  “Yes, I certainly do realize that.” A chill rippled the muscles of her back. “Jesus, they have your prints, Richard.”

  “So what? My prints aren’t on record. I’m not a felon.” He looked toward the large picture window framing an impressive piece of the Hudson River, a couple of brand-new buildings, a few deserted piers dotting the river’s edge.

  “God, Richard. If this comes out . . .” Kate flattened her fingers over her eyes. She wanted it all to go away—Elena’s death, Richard at Pruitt’s apartment, this conversation. Spots floated in the darkness behind her lids.

  “Why would it come out?” Richard stopped playing with the paperweight, dropped it onto his desk with a thud. “You’re the only one who knows.”

  “For now.” Kate opened her eyes. It took a moment for Richard’s face to come into focus.

  “Well, you’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” He pushed away from his desk and stood up.

  “Of course not.” Kate twisted her wedding band around her finger, pictured the two of them dancing at a party, the soft touch of Richard’s hand at the base of her spine, her cheek against his, the smell of his aftershave. Was that only a few weeks ago?

  Richard took hold of her hand.

  The action calmed her a bit, helped her concentrate. “Richard, when you were there, at Bill Pruitt’s, did you notice a small altarpiece, a Madonna and Child?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because Bill Pruitt had one that’s missing, remember?”

  Richard dropped her hand. “You’re not accusing me of stealing it, are you?”

  Kate stiffened. “I only asked if you saw it. Don’t go turning this around—making me the bad guy.”

  “No. I didn’t see one. If I had, I might have taken it—as payment for his embezzling.” He reached out again, touched her arm. “I’m sorry. Really I am. Forgive me?”

  Kate wanted to forgive him, to believe him, to have all of this behind them, but those images and feelings continued to nag at her. “I’m not sure.”

  “Oh, come on, Kate.” His fingers skittered lightly over her flesh, producing goose bumps.

  She laid her hand over his. “I’m trying.”

  Richard attempted a kiss, but Kate pushed him away.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s going to take me more than a minute to get over this.”

  “I was trying to protect the foundation, Kate. I’d have thought you’d agree with that.”

  “I might have.” Kate couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice. “If you’d given me the chance.”

  “I made a mistake, Kate. I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

  “Yes, you should have.” Kate swallowed, fought the tears that had gathered behind her eyes.

  “How about a hug?”

  Kate let her body sag against his. “Please, Richard. Don’t ever keep anything from me. I don’t care how bad it is.”

  Richard wrapped his arms around her. “Okay, I admit it. Bookies are threatening my life, I fucked Elizabeth Hurley, and I shot the sheriff.”

  “Very funny,” said Kate.

  “Hey, what happened to your sense of humor?”

  Kate looked into his eyes. “It sort of disappeared when I found your cuff link at a murder scene.”

  Kate sat on the edge of her all-white bed. She didn’t have the nerve to go back to the station. What if Slattery or Brown asked her if she’d found anything at Pruitt’s? Oh, just my husband’s cuff link, that’s all.

  It was as if everything was collapsing at the same time. Her husband lying to her, the foundation’s finances a wreck, the case at a standstill, Willie barely talking to her. It felt as if it was all unraveling; that she was unraveling. Kate could practically see pieces of herself being torn off, disappearing.

  She flopped back onto her bed, closed her eyes, saw that shaft of light, Richard’s cuff link edging out from the corner of the rug. Could he be lying to her? What was it he’d said just the other day? That you never really know anyone, that everyone had secrets. Does he? Damn it, she didn’t want to think like that. Richard was no murderer. Nor was she one of those naive wives who never suspect a thing while their husbands are out raping cheerleaders.

  The phone rang, but Kate let the machine get it. It was her friend Blair going on about the foundation benefit, then something about Kate’s dwindling social status.

  Oh, great. Just one more loss Kate could add to her list.

  The young boy won’t be found for weeks. The bricks tied to his feet before he was dropped into the river make that pretty much a certainty.

  But it feels . . . incomplete. Oh, sure, it was nice while it lasted. But now what? How to make something of it?

  Try.

  He shuts his eyes, imagines the dead teen floating under-water. For color, he adds a kaleidoscopic school of fish swimming around the body. Then some Hudson River detritus—an old tire, a bent metal chair covered with soft green moss, a headless baby doll—found objects to turn it into a surreal still life. That’s it! One of those big aquarium pieces like that British artist Damien Hirst makes. Oh, wouldn’t Mr. Hirst be jealous to have a real body to play with.

  Still, he must admit it did not feel as good without his audience. He needs to get close again.

  He paces in the room. Maybe it’s too soon. But there’s no stopping it now.

  He finds the electronic device he’s bought on-line. It feels tight in his hands, the metal cold. He’s tested and retested it, and it works, makes his voice hollow, unidentifiable. He speaks into it: “Testing, testing, testing.” The word echoes into the room, again and again, his voice strange, completely altered.

  “Hello,” he says. “Good evening. Are you surprised to hear from me?” His voice so alien, for a moment he’s thrown—it’s one too many voices, one too many psyches to deal with. But he speaks again, concentrates on the fact that it is his voice distorted through the metal device. “It’s me,” he says, listening to the echo: Me me me me me me . . .

  He laughs. Won’t she be surprised. But can he really go through with it?

  Do it.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Do it! You’re smarter. Invisible.

  He thinks about that a moment. It’s true. Just look at the way he slips in and out of places, no one noticing. He really can be invisible—when he wants to be.

  The receiver’s in his hand.

  Really, it’s for her own good. He doesn’t want her getting complacent.

  In her dream, she is running through a field. It’s night. She’s naked.

  She comes to the edge of a forest, the trees so dense she has to squeeze through them; spindly, leafless limbs nick her flesh.

  But now he’s here, too, the man, calling her name. Why is she so scared—the voice is familiar, not threatening. “Please. I need that back.”

  The forest has thinned out.

  She sprints, can feel him behind her. Hear him panting.

  She chances a quick peek over her shoulder, trips over a jagged rock, drops the small object she’s been clutching in her hand, which skitters along the ground and comes to rest beside a sodden mound of leaves.

  She bends forward, stretches out her arm to retrieve it—a small gold-and-onyx cuff
link. The man’s shadow falls across her back. He’s got a knife.

  She hears herself scream, a reverberating chime, over and over and over.

  The sound ripped her from the nightmare.

  Kate realized it was the phone ringing beside her bed. She reached for the receiver, her heart pounding. “Hello.”

  “Hel. . . lo,” he said.

  Still half in the dream, she asked, “Who is this?”

  “You . . . know.” The voice was distorted, metallic, hollow-sounding, dead slow.

  That was all it took. Kate was wide awake. My God. Is it him?

  She remembered the wire tap Mead had put on her phone. Keep him talking.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Resting.”

  “Why?”

  “Miss . . . me?”

  Kate considered what she should say for a moment. Which answer was he looking for? “Yes,” she said. “I have missed you.”

  She could practically hear him smile.

  “I’ll . . . be . . . back.”

  “When?”

  “Look . . . for . . . me . . . tomorrow.”

  “Where?”

  “At . . . the . . . party.”

  “How will I—”

  But he’d hung up.

  Kate listened to the dial tone, then quickly tapped in the code, got another voice, this one tired.

  “Did you get that?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I got it.”

  “Can you trace it?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Kate waited. Realized for the first time that she had fallen asleep in her clothes. She looked at the bedside clock. It was just after 5:00 A.M. No way she would get back to sleep now.

  The cop came back on the line. “He wasn’t on long enough for a trace,” he said. “But it’s all on tape.”

  “Get in touch with Randy Mead,” she said. “Right away. Tell him that the guy’s called me. And make sure that’s relayed to Chief Tapell, as well.”

  Kate dragged herself out of bed. She wished Richard were here instead of on a plane to Chicago to take early-morning depositions. Damn. She could really use a hug.

  Then she remembered the dream, the cuff link, and shivered.

  She grabbed up the phone again, tried to keep her hand from shaking. Hell, it didn’t matter what time it was. She was calling Mead and Tapell herself.

  37

  You heard the phone tapes,” said Kate, eyeing each of the squad members seated around the conference table. “He said he’d be at the gala for Let There Be a Future—at the Plaza. Tonight.”

  Brown drummed his nails on the table. “Exactly how many guests are we talking here?”

  Kate drew a deep breath. “About five hundred.”

  “I’ve been on it since I got your call.” Mead sucked his teeth. “We got twenty cops for inside the Plaza, and two at every exit. Of course the FBI is supplying their own men.” He sighed. “And the FBI shrink, Freeman, is on his way over now.”

  “McKinnon should wear a wire,” said Brown. “And I want to be there, too.”

  “You’ll need a tux,” said Kate, working hard to keep her voice calm. “I can have one sent over for you. You’re what—about a forty-two long?”

  “Forty,” said Brown, sucking in his gut involuntarily.

  Mitch Freeman cut into the room a bit breathless. He smoothed back his sandy hair and slid into a chair. “So exactly what have we got here?”

  “The fucking psycho called McKinnon,” said Mead.

  “Says he’s going to show up at this charity gala tonight,” Slattery added.

  “I know that. Tapell filled me in.” Freeman nodded at Kate. “What else?”

  “Well, he hasn’t given me any art clue to interpret,” said Kate. “It’s a departure from his ritual.”

  “These guys absolutely must have their ritual,” said Freeman. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t show up.” He offered Kate a prudent look. “He might tend to his ritual after the fact—if you get my drift.”

  Kate fought a chill, hugged her arms close to her body. “I can’t imagine him trying something in front of five hundred people.”

  Freeman thought a minute, then his eyes met Kate’s. “Unless he’s become totally delusional.”

  There were four men in the room. Three of them staring at the walls.

  The guy taping the mike to Kate’s diaphragm looked about seventeen—no beard, slight acne on his forehead—and seemed to be taking an awfully long time. She had goose bumps on her arms; God knew where else.

  “You finished?” She could feel the smooth edges of his fingers pressing tape to her rib cage. “How am I supposed to breathe?”

  “Carefully,” he said.

  Mitch Freeman stood beside Floyd Brown, rocking back and forth on his heels. Brown talked to the wall. “Make sure that mike’s in good working order,” he said. “Where’s the van going to be?”

  Another detective, angled away from Kate’s half-stripped body, said, “Just behind the Plaza. Don’t worry. That mike is good for several miles.”

  “Look,” said Freeman. “If he does show up, you have to keep your wits about you.”

  “What should I do? Ask him to dance?” Kate joked, though her body shuddered.

  “Truthfully,” said Freeman, “that wouldn’t be a bad idea. This guy wants to be close to you.”

  “I was kidding,” said Kate, swallowing hard.

  “I know you were. Look, we have no idea if he’ll show or what he might do. My best guess would be that he simply wants to observe you. He’ll use the crowd as his shield. On the other hand, these guys tend to think of themselves as superhuman, so you never know.”

  “Would he actually talk to me?” Kate fought another shiver.

  “Maybe.” Freeman turned, caught a glimpse of Kate in her black lace bra, quickly looked away. “All I’m saying is that you have to stay alert to any weird people or actions, anyone who might want to touch you.”

  “Jesus, Freeman.” Kate expelled a deep sigh. “There’ll be hundreds of people kissing me or shaking my hand.”

  “We’ll be right next to you,” said Brown. “You have a place to keep your gun?”

  “Not my Glock.” Kate could feel anxiety rising like heart-burn.

  “I’ll get you a small thirty-eight. You can strap it to your leg, under your skirt.”

  “Look, chances are he won’t do anything even if he shows,” said Freeman.

  “You just saying that to make me feel better?” Kate glanced down at the kid taping the mike. His cool fingers were making her tremble. “You finished?”

  “One second. There,” he said. “You’re all taped up.” He spoke into the mike. It was as if he were whispering into Kate’s navel. “Testing, testing . . .” The words echoed from the listening device across the room.

  “Just take it slow and easy,” said Freeman.

  “Oh, sure,” said Kate, trying to button her blouse with shaking fingers. “Only fox-trots.”

  With the mike taped across her ribs, the sleek, body-clinging Armani Kate had purchased for this event just wouldn’t work. She looked as if she’d sprouted a third breast.

  She combed through her closet, pushed dresses aside until she found a John Galliano number she’d bought on impulse in Paris the year before, and had never worn—a bodice covered with ruffle upon ruffle. What had she been thinking? Ruffles were never her thing. Well, tonight they were. She could hide a machine gun in all that froufrou.

  Kate laid the dress on the bed.

  It was too late to call Richard. His plane would be touching down at LaGuardia any minute.

  If only he’d told her about the fight with Pruitt before. Too late to think about that now.

  In the bathroom, she tried to apply her makeup, but her fingers were trembling. She had to calm down. Be on her toes tonight, as Freeman had said. She had all those guests to assuage—and the threat of a maniac, lurking.

  The thought did not help her relax. />
  She sat on the edge of the bed, took long deep breaths, grateful for that weekly yoga class she hadn’t had time for in weeks.

  Ten minutes later, Kate was calm enough to apply mascara without blinding herself.

  She twisted her hair up into a French knot. It was not salon-perfect but it would have to do. She slipped on a pair of black panty hose, and then her dress. The ruffles worked. Her chest was an ocean of wavy black chiffon. No unsightly bulges.

  She checked herself in the mirror. Not bad.

  Beneath all those ruffles, the tape on the mike was pulling at her skin. She shimmied her hand down below her bra, tried to pick at the edge of the tape, but it didn’t help. She’d just have to live with it. It suddenly brought back another memory. That last case. Ruby Pringle. She was wearing a mike that day, too; thought maybe she’d come face-to-face with that guy instead of the body of that poor kid.

  I know where she is because I know where I put her.

  The note. Red Magic Marker like dried blood.

  Jesus.

  Kate tore down the hall to her office, her satin party dress billowing. There it was on the corkboard wall: the image the death artist had sent—Kate with wings and halo, outlined with red marker, and the word HELLO.

  The writing was similar.

  Kate closed her eyes: Ruby Pringle, spread out on a sea of wavy plastic, aluminum foil surrounding her head, jeans pulled down.

  An angel. A naked angel. Could it be? Plastic wings. A foil halo.

  The death artist? So many years ago? Kate’s mind raced with the names and faces of people from her past. Who could have followed her—and why?

  She stared at her wall of crime scene photos—all those art-posed deaths.

  Was Ruby Pringle an early attempt at art? The scene was not as specific as what he was creating now. But why not?