The Death Artist (13 page)

“Look, there’s a possible connection between the victims–Elena Solana and Ethan Stein were both artists, and Bill Pruitt was chairman of a museum board. It
could
be one killer. That’s all I’m saying–and it’s a connection some reporter might make, too.”

“Jesus, Kate.” Tapell tugged at the flesh of her neck. “You’re suggesting a serial killer. You realize that?”

Kate leveled a hard stare at Tapell. “I realize that there were three deaths and someone might be contacting me about them.”

“If that’s true, I want a guard on you twenty-four-seven, but–” Tapell paced the length of her spare office. She did not want to consider what Kate was saying, but history had proved Kate’s feelings were often on target. “It could be a crank. You’re a public person.”

“Yes. I’ve considered that. What are your homicide people telling you about the murders?”

Tapell stopped pacing, leaned back against her desk, sagged a bit. “Nothing much. But Pruitt’s death could have been accidental.”

“Maybe. Look, Clare, I’m not saying I have any answers here, just that . . . well, you wanted more than a feeling–and this psycho is providing one. I should be working with your homicide people, advising or–”

Tapell sagged into the chair behind her desk. “The idea of a serial killer . . .” She sighed deeply. “God. You’d better have a look at those case files.”

It took only a few minutes for Kate to pin up her collection of images: the creepy graduation picture with the painted-over eyelids, the collage of the Madonna and Child, the enlargements she had made with Mert, one blurry Polaroid.

She was doing it just the way she used to do it back in Astoria–photographs, scraps of evidence, notes, all tacked up like an exhibition. She always needed to see everything. To look, and look again. She could still see her old wall of missing kids–those sweet young faces.

She moved from one image to the next. Nothing at all similar about them, and yet . . .

Kate opened the brown cardboard accordion file, removed three off-white folders stamped NYPD, laid them on her desk. Her fingertips played along the edge of the first folder. If only they’d indicated the cases on the outside. She’d rather not open Elena’s first.

But she was starting to get that feeling, too, adrenaline pulsing into her bloodstream, nerve ends tingling, a mix of excitement and dread.

WILLIAM M. PRUITT

Good. She could handle this.

She noted the toxicology report, contents of Pruitt’s stomach: a heady mix of drugs and alcohol.
Pruitt
? She wouldn’t have suspected drugs. Was it enough for him to drown in his tub? Time of death was set between midnight and 4:00 A.M.

Along with the report, an envelope of startling color photos–the man dead in his tub from every angle. A few close-ups of his face–mouth stretched in agony, a purplish bruise on his chin. Kate pinned them all to the wall, stepped back, then forward, moved from one photo to the next. Something nagged at her–
What is it
?

And what was that in Pruitt’s hand?

Kate laid her magnifying glass above the photo.

A dry-cleaning bill
? Now that was bizarre.

She hadn’t a clue what to make of it.

She moved to the next folder.

ETHAN STEIN

CAUSE OF DEATH:
LOSS OF BLOOD. TRACES OF CHLOROFORM ON THE VICTIM’S NOSTRILS, LIPS.

FIBERS IN HIS NOSE

TOXICOLOGY–pending

A rag dipped in knockout drops held to the victim’s face. Kate could picture it, though she was not quite prepared for the photos. The studio floor a sea of red, the artist naked, on his back, leg propped up, or what was left of it–it looked like a bloody stick–half of Stein’s chest, too, maroon red, exposed muscle like steak in a butcher’s shop.
And is that bone
?

Kate steadied herself, a hand on the edge of her desk for support. She scanned the report for the details: “Victim’s right leg and left pectoral, skinned.”

Skinned
?

She forced herself to look at the pictures again. Ethan Stein’s face was a mask of excruciating pain. J
esus Christ. Skinned . . . alive
? The report didn’t say, though the tremendous amount of blood loss–the heart still pumping at full speed–might indicate it.

Why such brutality?

Kate pinned Stein’s gruesome crime scene photos beside the ones of Pruitt, noted the dramatic lighting: half of Stein’s destroyed body bleached bright, the other half plunged into inky darkness.

Again, she stopped: There was definitely something oddly familiar about this scene, too.
But how could that be
?

Okay. Elena’s file. Kate could not delay it any longer.

The particulars of Elena’s death–temperature of the body, a few facial contusions, multiple stab wounds–added nothing to what Kate already knew. She dumped the envelope of photos onto her desk. They scattered like mini-sleds on ice, one skittering off the edge, corkscrewing to the floor. Did it have to be a close-up of Elena’s face? Kate stared at the odd pattern of blood along the girl’s cheek, then at a shot of the full body collapsed at the foot of the half-size refrigerator.

She arranged them all on the wall without really looking, then stood back, lit a Marlboro, glad for the veil of smoke which snaked in front of her eyes. She was reminded of those Goya prints in Mert’s gallery. Was she too close to see what was going on here, too?

Kate fanned the smoke away, studied the grim gallery of photos. There was something here. She was sure of it.
But what
?

She got her magnifying glass, ran it over all the photos, stopped at a tiny picture of a violin stuck to the surface of one of Ethan Stein’s paintings. Odd. Was the artist branching out into imagery? It didn’t really make sense.

For twenty minutes Kate went from one photo to the next, peering through the magnifying glass, but nothing clicked. All she was getting was eyestrain and a headache.

In her Carrara marble bathroom, Kate adjusted the antique brass bath taps, added a few capfuls of an aromatherapy gel to the oversized tub. She peeled off her clothes, tossed them onto her bed, grabbed the latest
New Yorker
off her night table. The soak would do her good.

The bathroom was already steamed up, the damp air permeated with the smell of hyacinth. Kate tested the water with a toe, stopped short.

The tub
!

She threw on her terry robe, charged down the hallway.

In the library, she yanked books from shelves, tossed them onto the leather couch, a few tumbled to the floor. Finally, the one she was looking for, a venerable old tome. She tucked it under her arm, raced back to her office, started flipping pages so fast they tore.

Okay. Calm down.
The index.
Right.
Kate could barely turn the pages now, her hands were trembling so. But there it was, the famous historical painting, one that Kate had studied in college, even wrote a goddamn paper about: Jacques-Louis David’s
The Death of Marat.

Bull’s-eye.

Marat, the man in the painting, dead, his head cradled by a towel, leaning back against the rim of the tub. Kate’s eyes ricocheted between the photos of Bill Pruitt pinned on her wall to the image in the book. Both heads–Pruitt’s, Marat’s–in the identical position; Pruitt’s arm draped over the side of the tub exactly like Marat’s. Kate’s eyes were ping-ponging back and forth. Pruitt even had a piece of paper in his hand, just like Marat.
Jesus, how could I have missed it
? Kate tore the page right out of the book.

Now she eyed the grotesque photos of Ethan Stein. Yes, this was familiar, too. But what, exactly? She flipped more pages, but nothing registered.

Down the hall again, in the library, she was momentarily stymied. So many books.
Think. Think.
Her eyes skimmed over row after row–books, journals, magazines, periodicals–but nothing came to her.

She dashed back to her office, plucked two of the Ethan Stein crime scene photos from the wall, snatched the report, too, reread it as she hurried back to the library. There was definitely something there. But what?
What
?

All those books were beginning to feel more intimidating than helpful.

Kate took a breath, sagged on the office’s small leather couch. She needed to stop a minute, to think clearly. She stared at the photos in her hand–the artist on his back, naked, the skinned leg and torso.
Skinned. That’s it
!

Barefoot, on the step stool, she wrestled the huge volume,
Renaissance Painting in Italy,
from an upper shelf, lugged it back to her office. Then she got all the Ethan Stein crime photos fanned out on the floor beside the book, riffling pages so fast the images were doing the jitterbug. There it was. Another goddamn bull’s-eye. The great Renaissance painter Titian,
The Flaying of Marsyas
. A horrifying scene, the man being skinned alive–exactly like Ethan Stein. Kate noted the crime scene picture of Stein, then the painting, both figures naked, strung up, the skin of the leg half removed. And the violin. Of course. That clinched it. In Titian’s painting, Apollo plays the violin while Marsyas is being flayed.

Jesus, this guy was a stickler for detail.

Shit.
Kate sat back on her heels, took it all in. It
was
about art.

Now, if she was right about Pruitt and Stein, the same must be true of Elena. But here she was stumped. Elena’s crime scene photos offered up nothing more than heartache.

Back in the library, Kate scanned the shelves–book after book about painting, art history, individual artists, the titles beginning to blur.

She needed another break, settled onto one of the living room couches, closed her eyes, tried to erase any thoughts, all images.
Okay. Breathe. That’s it.
Eyes open, Kate’s vision drifted slowly across one of Willie’s assemblages, a couple of Richard’s religious altarpieces, a large abstract painting, finally coming to rest on their prized Picasso, the one-eyed self-portrait.

Holy shit
!

Kate bolted down the hall, snatched the close-up of Elena’s butchered face, raced back, held the crime scene photo beside the Picasso with a shaky hand. A dead ringer. The Picasso profile replicated–forehead, nose, and chin–down the side of Elena’s cheek in a wavy line of blood.

Kate froze.
My God, has he been here, in my house, seen the painting
?

She whisked the large
Picasso & Portraiture
catalog off the antique brass music stand just beside the portrait, riffled pages until she found the reproduction:
Self-portrait. 1901. Oil on canvas. Collection Mr. and Mrs. Richard Rothstein.

Kate breathed a small sigh of relief.
Of course.
She and Richard would be identified as the owners of the portrait in any recent book on Picasso.

But then he chose the image knowing it was my painting. Why
?

That she couldn’t answer. Not yet. She felt as though she were on an adrenaline IV. She wanted to call Richard, tell him what she’d figured out. But she was speeding. She’d tell him later. She gathered everything up. Tapell had to see this.

A couple of minutes for Kate to line up the crime scene photos beside the paintings she’d selected. Ten minutes to spell out her theory.

Tapell took it all in. “You’re absolutely sure?” she asked, knowing the answer, just not wanting to admit it.

Kate nodded. “As sure as I can be, Clare.”

The two old colleagues locked eyes.

“All right.” Tapell exhaled. “You’ll have to explain it all again to the Special Homicide Task Force.” She surveyed the photos and pages Kate had torn from books one more time. “I’ll make the call.”

Kate only half listened while Tapell was on the phone, her adrenaline still pumping madly.

“It’s set,” said Tapell, replacing the phone. “You can work along with Mead’s squad–
unofficially
. Naturally, the man’s not thrilled with the idea, but I didn’t give him a choice. You’ll have to demonstrate to him what you can add to the investigation.”

“Thanks, Clare. I–”

“You’ll have to play by Mead’s rules. And no heroics, okay?”

Kate nodded.

The chief of police gave her a solemn look. “I don’t want the press to get wind of this. Not a word, Kate. We just got the goddamn Central Park Shooter out of the way. The last thing this city needs is talk of another serial killer.”

Kate paced. It was clearly Randy Mead’s idea of how to show her who was boss. She took in the greasy-haired guy handcuffed to the leg of the nearby metal desk: the crude blue-black tattoo on his forearm, a really lousy drawing of an eagle, and, just below it, a lopsided heart with a name–
Rita?–
barely legible inside. Across from him, a tired-looking cop asked rote questions, typed with two fingers.

The place had that curious buzz–activity devoid of life. Detectives and uniforms parading the usual perps–hookers, druggies, small-time hoods–through rows of metal desks into small cubicles, or past them into holding tanks; felons screaming about their rights or so drugged the cops had to drag them.

“. . . motherfucker, cocksucker, asshole, faggot, junkie, whore . . .”

The words floated on top of the stale air like funky Muzak.