The Death Artist (14 page)

Two woman cops, detectives in plain clothes, looked Kate over. She returned their stares until they looked away, then shoved her hands deep into the pockets of the designer jacket she was sorry she had worn here.

She wished Tapell had come with her, made the introductions personally.

“McKinnon?” The uniform looked as if he’d just graduated from the Academy. Kate nodded. “The squad’s ready for ya.”

The conference room was gray and beige, someone’s idea of sober, serious decor, but it was simply depressing. The overhead fluorescents bathed everything in a cold bluish light. The only “life” in the room snaked out of about thirty color crime scene photos pinned to a cork-board wall–ashen bodies enlivened with purple bruises and maroon wine blood. Among them Solana, Pruitt, Stein–three bodies Kate had become too familiar with. She sat back in a stiff metal chair, rapped her fingers on the folder she had brought with her, tried hard not to eyeball the other detectives whom Tapell had summed up in one-minute histories.

Floyd Brown: ace homicide cop, difficult by reputation, a lifer.

Maureen Slattery: formerly of vice, two years with the Special Homicide Squad, smart, tenacious.

Kate took in Detective Slattery’s teased blond bob, bubble-gum-pink lipstick outlined in cherry red, asked, “How long you been in homicide?” even though she knew the answer. Something to break the ice.

“Two years,” Slattery answered, not much emotion in her Brooklyn- or Queens-tainted speech. “I did a nickel in vice before this.”

“Five years is a long time in hot pants and halter tops.” Kate smiled.

Slattery rolled her eyes, something wary pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Tell me about it.” The way Maureen Slattery saw it, homicide might not be all that different from vice, except that here the men wouldn’t be looking at her ass. She took in Kate’s expensive blazer, the grooming that went along with privilege, wondered why this obvious up-town gal was slumming.

Floyd Brown leaned against the far wall sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup, his eyes skirting the rim. When Kate was introduced, he nodded. Barely.

Randy Mead bolted into the room with a stack of manila file folders under his arm. “So, everybody get acquainted?” He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple did a little dance just above his bow tie, this one with blue polka dots, which, Kate thought, made him look about twelve. He made that teeth-sucking noise she remembered too well from their first meeting. He threw Kate a sideways glance. “McKinnon, here, has got a little theory that Chief Tapell wants her to share with us.”

Kate decided to ignore the condescension in Mead’s tone. “First of all,” she said, “I’m here unofficially–but on Clare Tapell’s authority.” She let that sink in, then: “For the record, I was a cop, in Astoria, for over a decade.”

“Wait a minute.” Brown shook his head, confused. “Aren’t you the art lady from Channel Thirteen?”

Kate smiled. “I had a series about art, on PBS, yes.”

Maureen stared at her blankly. She’d obviously never seen it.

“So you’re here . . . why?” Brown asked.

“I think that will become obvious, Detective Brown.” Kate opened her folder, placed a Pruitt crime scene photo beside the image torn from her book. “What you are looking at is
The Death of Marat
, a famous eighteenth-century painting by Jacques-Louis David. Note the similarities. Not just the tub, but how Pruitt’s head is cradled by the towel, the way his arms are placed, just like Marat’s. Pruitt even has a note in hand, as does Marat in the painting.”

Brown leaned in.

“The fucking laundry list,” said Slattery. “Like Pruitt was just sitting there, reading his goddamn laundry list, and had a heart attack–”

“But it’s no heart attack,” said Kate. “I’m sure of that. The laundry list is merely a prop.”

“Staged,” Brown mumbled, almost to himself.

Slattery asked, “Why’s he in the bath, this Marat guy, in the painting?”

“A nasty skin condition,” said Kate. “He had to stay immersed in his bath because of the pain.”

Mead sucked his teeth again. “Any significance between Pruitt and the guy in the painting?”

Kate thought a moment. “Well . . . Marat was a political leader in the French Revolution, and Pruitt was a museum president. Maybe it’s that the two guys were leaders.” She thought again. “And one could say that the Contemporary Museum is somewhat revolutionary.”

Mead appeared to take this in. Brown made a note.

Now Kate laid an Ethan Stein crime scene photo on the conference table beside the picture she’d torn from her book on Renaissance painting. “This one’s by Titian. It’s called
The Flaying of Marsyas.
”

“Damn.” Brown eyed both sets of pictures.

“The crime scenes are very carefully staged,” said Kate. She sat back, waited until all three sets of eyes were on her. “The guy is making art. Living tableaux–except that they’re not living. They’re re-creations.”

“But
why
?” Mead pressed.

“When you catch him,” said Kate, “ask.”

“So,” said Brown, looking at one picture, then another. “Our killer knows something about art.”

“Yes. But anyone with an art book or poster could stage the scenes.” Kate tapped her lip. “I was just thinking . . . In the Titian painting, Marsyas gets flayed because of his vanity. Perhaps that’s another message. You know, the vain artist.”

“Poor bastard,” said Maureen Slattery. “So what’d this guy, Marsyas, do?”

“He challenged the god Apollo to a music contest–and lost.”

“Tough crowd,” said Slattery.

Kate regarded the mask of horror on the dead artist’s face.

“What tipped me off was the skinning, the flaying. Just like in the painting. Also the little picture of a violin stuck onto Stein’s painting.” Kate pointed it out in the photo. “You can see it clearly under a magnifier. I’m sure the killer put it there. Did anyone take it?”

“It’s probably still there,” said Brown. “We’ll get it.”

Kate looked back at Stein’s file. “I’d also guess that when you get the toxicology report, there’s going to be some kind of paralyzing drug in Stein’s veins. No one could sit still for that.” She turned to Mead. “Did your crime scene boys notice anything about the lights in Stein’s studio?”

“What do you mean?”

“I think the killer was aping the painting right down to the chiaroscuro.”

“The
who
?” Maureen frowned.

“The intense black-and-white side lighting. Rembrandt used it. So did Caravaggio. A lot of painters have. Titian uses it for dramatic effect.” Kate placed another one of the crime scene photos of Stein’s body on the table. “I think if you revisit the Stein scene, you’ll find that half of the spot-lights in the studio have been unscrewed or unplugged.”

Maureen made a note. “We’ll check it out.”

“So, if you’re right, then we’re looking at the same unsub for Pruitt
and
Stein,” said Brown.

Unsub? Oh, right. Unknown subject
. “Yes,” said Kate.

Brown said something to Slattery, the two of them whispering.

Mead put up a hand to silence them. “Look, no one is saying anything definite here. Let’s not go jumping on any serial-killer bandwagons–not just yet.” He offered Kate what she guessed was a look of sincerity. “I know Tapell thinks you’re onto something, and hey, maybe you are, but we gotta substantiate everything–and I mean
everything
–before we go saying serial.”

“I absolutely agree,” said Kate.

“Good. Now what about Solana?”

“Also staged,” said Kate. “Though you might say it’s a bit more subtle.” She strained to sound matter-of-fact as she opened the
Picasso & Portraiture
book to the one-eyed self-portrait. She selected the crime scene photo close-up of Elena’s face, laid it beside the Picasso self-portrait. “Notice that the Picasso portrait has two faces in one–a full face and a profile right down the middle. The killer has selected the profile, which he’s painted along Elena Solana’s cheek.”

“In blood,” said Brown. “Economical.”

“Or maybe he wasn’t quite prepared,” said Kate.

“What’s with the one eye?” asked Slattery. “Any significance?”

For a moment Kate realized it could have been worse–that the psycho could have gouged out Elena’s eye if he’d wanted to replicate the entire portrait.
Thank God for small blessings.
“Picasso tended to paint fast,” said Kate. “When he felt as though he’d painted enough, gotten his message across, he’d just stop, move on to another painting. He left studios,
houses
, filled with paintings in all states of what you might consider unfinished.” She paused. “Maybe that’s also true with the killer–that he felt he’d left us
enough
of a message.” Kate paused again. “But the choice of this particular Picasso is significant because . . . it’s
my
painting.”

“What do you mean,
yours
?” Mead’s small eyes narrowed.

“I mean, I own it. It’s in my living room.”

Brown looked alarmed. “You mean this guy’s been in your house?”

Kate put up a hand. “I thought that too, but look at the book. It’s right there, my name, the fact that I own it.” Kate couldn’t stop looking at the profile in blood on Elena’s cheek. “I don’t know why, but I think he chose it for that very reason–that it’s mine.”

Mead leaned toward her. “You got any enemies, McKinnon?”

“Half the art world, I imagine.”

Slattery cocked her head toward Kate. “Why’s that?”

“My art book was a bit unconventional–and way too popular. Then the PBS series.” Kate shrugged her shoulders. “Success. It breeds envy–and enemies. Maybe.” Kate looked from one crime scene photo to the next–Elena, Bill Pruitt, Ethan Stein. “There are just too many connections here,” she said. “Elena was a graduate of Let There Be a Future, and William Mason Pruitt was not only on the board of Let There Be a Future, but also served as its financial adviser. Plus, he was president of the board of the Museum of Contemporary Art, which was the last place Elena Solana was seen . . . alive.” Kate faltered a moment. “I should add that I’m also on that board and that I knew the victim–Elena Solana–well.” She paused. “But you already know I was one of the people to find the body.”

For the next twenty minutes the squad reviewed the grizzly details of Elena Solana’s murder: the seventeen stab wounds, the position of the body, the lack of fingerprints.

Kate surprised herself at how she could listen to it all, as though it were any ordinary case. Funny, she thought, how quickly the cop thing kicked in, the ability to detach.

“There’s evidence here to suggest you’re dealing with a very
organized
killer,” she offered. “Not only does he take his time with the crime scenes, but he cleans up. And according to your tech boys, he left no prints. And I’d say that both the Pruitt and Stein murders took some serious planning, too.”

“I agree.” Brown tilted his head in her direction, narrowed his eyes. “But why do
you
say that?”

“You ever try to slip past a Park Avenue doorman, Detective Brown? Not easy. If someone wanted access to Bill Pruitt’s building they would have to know when the door-men switched shifts, or waited, possibly for hours, for the doorman to leave his post, and then slip in. It would take planning or patience–or both. As for Stein, well . . . who’s seen his place?”

Brown nodded. “Gates on the windows. Police lock on the front door. Neither tampered with or broken.”

“So Stein let the killer in–which is what I’d guess about Solana.”

“Unless Solana is a crime of passion,” Slattery offered. “You said before that the unsub may not have been prepared.”

“Or the girl could have been hooking,” said Mead.

Elena? Hooking
? Mead’s words shot through Kate like amphetamine.

The other detectives turned toward her, waiting to see what she would say, do. She’d already told them she had been close to Elena, and now, she guessed, they wanted to see if she could take it.

Kate gripped the edge of the metal table. “Maureen, you searched the apartment. Did you find any sexy outfits?”

“Mostly flannel PJs.”

“I see. How about a little black book with lots of initialed appointments? Anything like that?” Under the table, Kate’s foot was tapping.

Maureen shook her head.

“And the contents of the medicine cabinet? Any condoms, poppers, amyl nitrite, ludes, ecstasy, that sort of thing?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Very tame hooker.” Kate locked her eyes on the young blond policewoman. “You said you worked vice for five years, so you would recognize a prostitute’s apartment, yes?”

Mead cut in. “We get your point, McKinnon.” He offered up a cheesy smile. “All I’m suggesting here is that your scholarship girl might not be so squeaky clean.”

Brown displayed a sheet of paper from the Solana file. “Your statement here says you were with Solana earlier that evening, before she got killed.”

“Not together per se.” Kate felt the slightest crack in her armor.
The amphitheater, Elena onstage, alive.
“She gave a performance. At the Museum of Contemporary Art, which I attended.”

“Says you left her around nine.”

The quickest good-bye. A kiss good night.
“Yes. Right after her performance. We had planned to go out for dinner, but Elena was tired and–”
Elena’s broken body. A pool of congealed blood edging into cracked linoleum tiles.
Kate almost gasped, the image so vivid in her mind. She took a deep breath. “It was a few days later that I, we, that is, me and Willie Handley, found her body.”

“So, let me get this straight,” said Brown, scanning one file, then the other. “You knew both vics–Solana and Pruitt.”

Kate blinked. “Yes. That’s right.”

“What about Stein?”

“I didn’t know him, but I own one of his paintings.”

“You seem to know everyone, McKinnon.” Mead’s tiny eyes narrowed even more.

“Not everyone. I don’t think I ever met Ethan Stein, though I may have, in passing–because of my art-world connections.” Kate took another breath. “There’s more.” She slid the graduation photo onto the table. “This was somehow planted on me. It’s of me and Elena Solana. I got it before she was killed. That is, before I
knew
she was killed. Look closely. Her eyes–”