The Death Artist Read online

  She placed a call to her old Astoria station, got a desk cop. There was no one there she knew. No one she could talk to about the Ruby Pringle case. The desk cop didn’t even know what she was referring to.

  Kate clipped the small .38 into a holster, then hiked up her dress and strapped the contraption to her thigh.

  Ruby Pringle’s old murder case would have to wait until tomorrow.

  Unless he struck tonight.

  Men in tuxedos, women in party dresses, were filing into the Plaza for their thousand-dollar-a-plate meal.

  As patrons and co-hosts, Kate and Richard had purchased two tables, at which they had seated their friends strategically among potential foundation donors. Tonight, their friends were expected to chatter and charm the donors; tomorrow, the donors were expected to write their tax-deductible checks to Let There Be a Future. Everyone knew the rules. Those who didn’t wouldn’t be invited back.

  Kate had gotten through to Richard’s cell phone. He was on the way.

  Floyd Brown was already there, at the entrance to the Plaza’s Grand Ballroom leaning against the wall, looking equally handsome and uncomfortable in his snazzy rental tux. Kate had to smile.

  “You wearing the mike?” he whispered into her chest.

  “You think I’d be dressed like Bo Peep if I wasn’t?”

  “Dugan,” Brown said, listing toward Kate’s bosom. “I hope you’re picking this up.”

  “Floyd. Could you please stop talking to my breasts?”

  Brown straightened abruptly, flustered, rammed his hands into his tuxedo pockets.

  Kate’s co-host, Blair, angled by, giving them a curious look. Kate made hasty introductions, looped her arm through Brown’s, dragged him away. She was feeling anxious, but kept taking deep breaths, which helped her maintain an air of calm. A month ago, this event had been the most important thing in her life. Now, all she hoped to do was live through it.

  After twenty-five minutes of introductions—the mayor, Henry Kissinger, a steady flow of assorted socialites and moneymen—Brown was close to speechless. It was just too many people shoving and talking and shaking hands and kissing, all opportunities to do McKinnon real harm. Both she and Brown had been scrutinizing every person who came within an inch of Kate. It was making Brown incredibly nervous. Kate continued to remain cool, but it was an act. Brown noticed how her eyes swept the room, checking the guests’ hands, trying to spot the nearest tuxedo-clad cop, all the while maintaining her smile, even an air of nonchalance.

  A photographer, one of Patrick McMullan’s crew, had been snapping them everywhere they turned, Kate and Brown trying hard not to lose control in the few seconds when the flashbulbs left them temporarily blind.

  Everywhere Kate looked another face loomed close to hers. Every hand in a pocket posed a potential threat. She held her breath, smiled on automatic. But inside, her panic was just barely contained.

  “I want to check with the door guards,” said Brown. “See if they’ve noticed anything suspicious.” He leaned in close, whispered, “The guy over there who looks worse in his rental tux than I do is a cop—and he’s only two feet away from you.”

  “I’ll be okay.” She patted her thigh, indicating the gun to Brown, but her hand was trembling.

  Willie made an appearance with Charlie Kent on his arm. As an artist, he was not expected to wear the requisite tux. He had a black silk turtleneck on under a sleek leather sports jacket. Kate kissed his cheeks. He didn’t kiss back.

  It added a layer of sadness over Kate’s anxiety. She eyed a man just behind Charlie, reaching into his breast pocket. She didn’t know him, saw him listing toward her. She signaled the nearby cop with her eyes. He shoved guests aside, got a grip on the man’s arm, slowly eased the guy’s hand out of his tux—there was a handkerchief in the man’s fingers.

  “Excuse me?” The man threw him a look of derision and incredulity.

  “Sorry,” said the cop. “I thought you were someone else.”

  Kate took a breath, scanned the room. Was he here?

  And with that thought, for the briefest moment, the entire crowd blurred. Even the music grew distant, hushed. It was as though everyone and everything were leaving the stage, and only two actors remained.

  So this is why he called me, thought Kate—to make me feel his presence.

  And it was working. Kate could not shake it—that feeling that he was here, beside her, watching her every move, pulling the strings.

  And then it started all over again, the room coming to life, the clamor and bustle, every other second someone bumping into her or shaking her hand or kissing her cheek. Kate was trying to keep that smile in place, but her nerves were starting to fray.

  If he’s here, why the hell doesn’t he show himself?

  But of course, he might already have said hello, shaken her hand, kissed her cheek. The thought chilled her. Is he someone she knew? Or a complete stranger? And if he was here, what would he do? Shoot her? No. There wouldn’t be any art in that. Plus, the guests had to walk through a god-damn metal detector. Jesus, what were the society columnists going to say about that?

  Kate glanced around the room, paintings flashing in her mind—Renoir’s sweeping party scenes, Manet’s crowded cafés, Goya’s royal-family portraits. The death artist could go for any one of those. A dozen others. But what part would she play in them? And why her? Why?

  A man was to her right, bussing her cheek; a woman to the left, whispering something. Then two more in front of her. Features were blurring, replaced by the faces of the death artist’s victim’s—Stein, Pruitt, Amanda Lowe, Elena. Always Elena.

  Kate was starting to tremble. Was she still smiling, shaking hands? She had no idea. She heard his voice on the telephone, hollow and metallic, echoing in her ears; the image of herself with wings and halo, and that one written word—HELLO—shimmering in her brain.

  A tap on her shoulder. Kate whirled around so fast she almost tumbled. Richard caught her.

  “Steady there, tiger.” He kissed her cheek.

  Kate sagged against him.

  “Are you okay?” His blue eyes looked intently into hers, his brow furrowed.

  “Where’ve you been?” she asked, coming back to the moment, feeling the crowd surrounding her, humming, electric. She took a long, deep breath.

  “Traffic,” said Richard, stroking the back of her neck. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m okay. Just nervous,” said Kate, painting on a smile.

  Around them, people were nibbling canapés, swilling cocktails, chatting.

  “Come on.” Richard took her by the arm. “You look like you need to sit down.”

  * * *

  The florists had not disappointed. The centerpieces were huge, but low, all white—roses, freesia, tulips. White table-cloths and china to match.

  Somehow Kate was managing to make small talk, though she hadn’t a clue how she was doing it—the words seemed to come out of her mouth on their own.

  “You look beautiful,” she said to Liz, whom she’d seated beside her. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

  “You holding up?”

  “Just.”

  Liz eyed her with concern, was about to speak when Arlen James took the podium and launched into his speech about education and its importance, what the foundation achieved, how many kids it put through college each year, how to become a supporter, all with the charm and ease of a man to the manor born—which he was not. Kate admired his stamina, considering that he had just written a two-million-dollar check to cover the embezzling of the late William Mason Pruitt, whose name was never once mentioned.

  But Kate could not relax, her eyes moved from one table to the next, searching the corners of the room, the shadows.

  Where is he? She played with her napkin, twisting it in her lap. Had the death artist set her up just to torment her? It was possible. She glanced across the table at Richard, who smiled. The cuff link on Pruitt’s living room floor flashed in her mind. Arlen James wa
s still talking, but Kate couldn’t concentrate. She was up fast, whispering excuses to the people at her table, hurrying out of the room.

  The cops and FBI agents at the door were right on her heels, spinning as Kate moved through the Grand Ball-room’s entrance, following her into the hallway.

  “I’m just going to the ladies’ room.” She needed to be alone.

  A cop scanned the ladies’ room first, checked the stalls before giving her the all-clear sign.

  Inside, Kate leaned against the sink, took a few deep breaths, a sip of water, dotted her brow with more. She was pale. Her hands were shaking.

  Damn him. He was playing with her, and she knew it.

  And that damn wire on her torso was itching like crazy. Kate tried to get at it, but couldn’t. She ducked into a stall, had the top of her dress half unzipped when she heard foot-steps on the tiles. She looked down. Black shoes. Men’s.

  She went for her gun, but a second later a herd of storm troopers had charged into the ladies’ room, all shouting: “Freeze! Hands in the air! Don’t make a move!”

  Kate gripped the .38, kicked the stall door open.

  A guy in a tuxedo was on the floor, sixty, possibly older, the look on his face pure terror. The cops and agents had him pinned down. Three pistols were aimed at his head. Two at his heart. One cop had a hand around his throat.

  “Jesus,” said Kate. “You’re going to kill him.”

  The guy was practically in tears. “I din’ know I was in the ladeesh room.” His words slurred. He was drunk.

  “He didn’t do anything,” said Kate, offering the man her hand. No way this man was a threat. “Are you okay?” she said, truly concerned, holding on to his hand.

  The guy could barely speak. His face was ashen, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

  At the Plaza’s front entrance, Kate and Richard, with Floyd Brown not far behind, were hit with a barrage of flashbulbs. A band of TV and news reporters had descended, cameras and microphones ready. Apparently news of the police storming the Grand Ballroom’s ladies’ room had traveled fast.

  On automatic, Kate pulled back, retreated into the lobby, clutching Richard’s arm.

  Brown suggested the side entrance, and Kate was about to agree when a thought stopped her: Now it’s my turn.

  She huddled with Brown, the two of them whispering, then sent him off to deal with the media while she checked herself in one of the Plaza’s huge gilded mirrors.

  “What’s going on?” asked Richard, impatient.

  “C’mon,” said Kate. “Watch the show.”

  “One at a time,” said Brown to the crowd assembled on the Plaza’s front steps. He signaled an attractive TV reporter to begin.

  “So it was not the death artist who attacked you tonight?”

  “No,” said Kate. “I wasn’t attacked at all.”

  The reporters all started talking at once. Brown silenced them, pointed at a local TV anchor, who stepped forward. “As one of the country’s leading art experts, what do you make of the death artist?”

  Kate gave the reporter a subtle nod—he’d asked the exact question she had requested. She stared directly into the large camcorder. “You must remember that most art today is idea-based—and has been since Conceptual art came on the scene in the late sixties.”

  A few of the reporters exchanged confused looks, but Kate was speaking to him now. Not to camera crews. Not to reporters. Only him. “In Conceptual art, it’s the idea that drives the work. The finished work of art is, or should be, a perfect illustration of the artist’s idea and intent. Now, if you view the death artist’s work in those terms, well . . . it comes up short.” She paused, her eyes focused on the camera, imagining him there, at the other end of it, watching, listening. “The fact is that his work isn’t all that clear. I don’t get what he’s trying to do. I’d like to, but . . .” She continued to stare at the camera. “I just don’t.”

  A reporter shouted: “What about the case? Can you comment on its progress?”

  “No,” said Kate. “I can only discuss the art.”

  Now all the reporters were shouting questions, but she turned away, her mission accomplished.

  38

  Kate tapped a copy of the newspaper photo—the one where the death artist had given her halo and wings, now pinned to the conference room’s bulletin board. “The writing is what made me think of it,” she said. “It’s very similar to a note I got on my last case, in Astoria.”

  “Astoria was a long time ago,” said Mead.

  “Not so long,” said Kate. “And the case was never solved. I called the station last night, and again this morning. I wanted them to send me what they have on it, particularly a fingerprint that was never matched.”

  “You think it might actually have been the death artist’s?” asked Slattery.

  “We’ve got prints from each of the crime scenes that we can’t match to anything. If one of them matches the print I had from the scene ten years ago—”

  “So what does Astoria say?” asked Brown.

  “That all their unsolved homicides over eight years old were put on microfiche, and then transferred to discs and sent to Quantico a year ago.”

  “We do that, too,” said Mead. “It’s automatic now.”

  “I tried to get the information through the FBI’s website but was denied access,” said Kate.

  “I’m sure those boys would be happy to get you the info.” Mead scowled.

  “Yes, but I’d rather ask my friend. No need to overtax the Bureau.”

  Mead almost smiled. “So.” He leaned his elbows on the conference table. “You mind explaining your little late-night TV performance to me?”

  “I was just giving our murderous unsub what he wants,” said Kate. “To be treated like an artist. It was serious art talk, and whether or not the death artist understands it, I’m pretty sure it will intrigue him, make him want to play ball with me even more.”

  “This isn’t a game,” said Mead.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Randy. It is a game.” Kate’s eyes narrowed. “I think it will please him—that I tried to engage him as I would any artist. And my words were calculated. I said I wasn’t quite getting his work because I want him to spell it out for me—for us. I did that whole Conceptual art rap because I want him to hone his ideas, make them perfectly clear.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Get it?”

  Slattery shook her head. “Not completely.”

  “Look. If his ideas are clear, his clues will be, too. The clearer his clues, the faster I can figure them out. The faster I figure them out, the quicker we go on the hunt. And hope-fully beat him. I want to get it right next time.” Kate looked from Slattery to Brown to Mead. “Don’t you?”

  “Suppose he doesn’t send you any more clues?” Mead tugged at his bow tie.

  “Are you kidding? I gave the guy a mixed review—on national TV. I said his work was good, but not good enough. My guess is the death artist just can’t wait to show me how fucking good—and clear—he can be.”

  Damn her.

  His anger bubbles up, thoughts of destroying her run through his brain, wild, uncontrolled. But then he sees it—she is toying with him, playing the game. Of course she knows his work is brilliant. How could she not?

  She’s making a request. And he should listen. Take up her challenge. If it’s clarity she wants, it’s clarity she will get.

  But how can he possibly be more clear. Is she kidding? Has she ever tried to work with living subjects? The way they fight, resist, try to thwart his creativity at every turn.

  He paces. Rats skitter into corners, disappear into cracked floorboards.

  He’s got to come up with something really special, something exceptional, worthy of them both.

  You must do it.

  The voices.

  Just today, he got so scared, convinced that others could hear them. How could they not? They are so fucking loud. Piercing. But no, they only smiled, his stupid secretary, his c
o-workers.

  He stares at his wall—the Polaroids of Amanda Lowe—his current one-man exhibition.

  How can she not see his brilliance? But of course she does. She must.

  He thinks about his phone call, how well it worked. All those cops, just waiting. So stupid. Did they really think he was dumb enough to risk it all for such a cheap trick? What art is there in that?

  He drums his fingers on his worktable.

  Artists’ Lives. The book practically telegraphs itself from the far end of the table. He lifts it into his lap, cradles it like a baby, flips the pages, slowly, studies the illustrations, pictures of Willie, Elena, all the other artists. Why isn’t he in here?

  But he will be written about. He knows that. One day they will write entire books about his work.

  On the last page of Kate’s book, just under the author’s photo, he reads about her schooling, the impressive degrees, even the title of her Ph.D. thesis: Abstract Expressionism—Painting with the Body.

  That’s when it comes to him. The perfect idea.

  Now all he has to do is apply it to the duet he’s been planning.

  He drags the carton of well-worn cards and pictures closer. This time, he goes through them methodically, meticulously, one at a time. And it doesn’t take long to find what he needs. The perfect images. The perfect idea.

  His gloved fingers tremble with excitement as he places the images side by side.

  Clear?

  Oh, man, if it were any clearer . . .

  Floyd Brown was not smiling—neither in the photo nor in real life.

  There they were, he and McKinnon, she in her ball gown, he in a tux. And Henry Kissinger. The picture, carefully cut from the society party page of the New York Times, was tacked up on the police-events bulletin board.

  Katherine McKinnon Rothstein, Floyd Brown Jr., and Henry Kissinger, at the Let There Be a Future Benefit Ball at the Plaza.

  He’d been getting cracks and jokes and snide innuendos about it all day long.

  “How’s Henry?”

  “Give my best to Hank.”

  “Nice tux.”