The Death Artist (3 page)

“Hey, I’m forty-
five
. You think you’re gonna get any sympathy out of me? Forget it.” She shook her head. “So what’s on the agenda tonight?”

Kate’s face lit up. “Richard and I are meeting up with our two favorite kids. Going to a downtown performance–something cool and oh-so-avant-garde, I’m sure.” Kate rolled her eyes. “Hey, why don’t you join us?”

“No can do. Tonight’s devoted to computer manuals. Do I know how to live, or what?” Liz mimed a broad yawn. “But thanks. And, let me guess–you’re talking about Willie and Elena.”

“Natch.” Kate smiled.

“They’ve become famous since your book.”

“Oh, they’d have done it without me.” Kate waved a dismissive hand. “Willie’s got a group of paintings in the Venice Biennale next month. A
very
big deal in the art world. Then his own show right here, in New York, at the Contemporary Museum.”

“Wow.”

“Definitely wow. And Elena will be touring Europe this summer,” Kate continued, her voice rising with enthusiasm. “Oh, I wish you could have been at her performance the other night. It was really something.”

For the moment, the Four Seasons bar was exchanged for the intimate amphitheater of the Museum of Contemporary Art, Elena onstage, a solitary spotlit figure backed by an ever-changing series of pulsating, orgiastic abstractions–the translation of her vocal gymnastics fed through a computer.

“Elena could easily have a career as a mainstream singer,” said Kate. “But she’s chosen this incredibly difficult, though amazing, route. I mean, she had that crowd of swells and swelled heads riveted.” Kate remembered the museum’s director, Amy Schwartz, a fidgety type by nature, rapt, raving over Elena’s multi-octave voice. And the senior curator, Schuyler Mills, proclaiming Elena brilliant; here, clearly, was a man of taste and culture. Even that pompous old bore, the Contemporary’s recent chairman of the board, Bill Pruitt, managed to stay awake–no mean feat for a man who normally snored his way through the Contemporary’s poetry readings and artist talks. As for the young curator, Raphael Perez, the guy could not take his eyes off Elena. But who could blame him? The girl was beautiful.

“I’m sorry I missed it–Elena’s performance, that is. You’ve done a great job with those kids, Kate.”

Now it was Kate’s turn to try on that little smile that belied a bursting pride. Yes, it was true, she had more than a little to do with the way those kids turned out. Willie and Elena. Her two prized graduates from the very first class she and Richard had adopted through Let There Be a Future, the educational foundation for underprivileged inner-city kids, nearly ten years ago. Okay, so they were not her biological children. Not even adopted children. But could she possibly love any kids more than she loved those two? She didn’t see how. Perhaps they were even closer because she had
not
borne them; because there was none of that parental angst that comes with blood, that pits children and parents against one another. No, there had been none of that with Elena or Willie. Oh, sure they’d had their moments, but nothing they could not eventually laugh at, or cry through to the other side. Willie and Elena.
Her kids.
And, yes, they would do. She smiled warmly. “God, I adore those little brats.”

“Oh, Kate.” Liz folded her hands into a praying position. “Please, please,
please
adopt me. I’ll be good–keep my room clean, brush my teeth–I
swear
.”

Kate laughed, dug into her bag, came up with her pack of Marlboros; a crumpled nicotine patch was adhered to its side. “Jeez, no wonder this thing isn’t working.” Then she lifted a folded photograph from the table. “Where’d this come from?”

“It fell off your nicotine patch. Maybe the thing gave birth.”

But Kate had stopped laughing. She held the photo beside the small lamp in the center of the table. The picture was slightly blurry, the colors somewhat faded. “It’s from graduation.”

“I can see that,” said Liz, plucking it from Kate’s hand. “Nice.”

“Except that I have no idea how it got here.”

“You know, it’s okay for even tough Kate McKinnon to admit she carries sentimental photos around.”

“I would admit it, but the only photo I ever have in my bag is on my driver’s license, and I’d get rid of that one if I could.”

“Well, I guess someone else put it in there to surprise you.”

For a moment, Kate felt something she had not felt in years; something Kate the homicide detective used to feel when she knew she was onto something, or when she knew, though tried to deny, that it was hopeless, that it was over–that the kid she’d been looking for was dead. But she tried to shrug it off. “I guess Richard could have done it,” she said. Though she couldn’t imagine why. Or her housekeeper, Lucille, possibly. But why not leave it on her desk or the kitchen counter or a dozen other places that would make more sense? Kate dropped the photo back into her hand-bag–and with it any more thoughts on the subject. “Hey,” she said, brightening. “Why not stay with me this month? I mean it. We’ve got rooms we never even go into. You’d be doing me a favor.”

“Quantico’s already booked me into a midtown efficiency, near the library.”

“Oh, stop trying to impress me.”

“It’s okay, really.” Liz popped a couple of peanuts into her mouth. “Anyway, Kate, I don’t exactly fit into your world.”

“Oh, brother. After all these years must I remind you that although I may shop, lunch, and party with the upper classes, I am merely trespassing among them? At heart, kiddo, we’re two of a kind.”

Liz gazed intently at Kate. “My dear friend. Look at
me,
look at
you
–then look around. I’m the only woman in this room wearing a color, for Christ’s sake! And this orange blouse is one hundred percent poly.” She got her fingers on the edge of Kate’s sleeve. “Cashmere, right? Ralph Lauren or Calvin what’s-his-face? And don’t lie–I’ve been through your closet. Me? I can’t even remember the last time I ate in a restaurant where you don’t pick up your food on a
tray.
”

“Lizzie, if you won’t stay with me, you have to promise to spend at least half your time with me, two or three dinners a week–just the two of us.” Kate riffled around in her buttery leather bag. “Here. Keys to my humble flat. My extra set. All yours. Come and go as you please. Cadge food from my fridge. Wear my Calvin what’s-his-faces.”

“You know, I’ve always wanted a twenty-room penthouse overlooking Central Park as my own little pied-à-terre.”

“Twelve rooms.
Please.
Not twenty.”

“Twelve lousy rooms.” Liz dropped the keys. “Forget it.”

“Okay. I’ll throw Richard in. Wear my clothes. Sleep with my sexy husband.”

Liz’s fingers curled around the keys. “Now you’re talkin’.”

Just the other day seeing Kate in action at the Museum of Modern Art, lecturing on Minimal and Conceptual art, of all things, he could not stop thinking: She’s mine–this brilliant, gorgeous creature–all mine. I’m the lucky guy who gets to go home with her.

He couldn’t help but smile.

Richard and Kate. Kate and Richard. On top of the world.

And who’d have believed it? Richard, the Brooklyn boy, son of Sol, apple of Edie’s eye, first in his class at CCNY. Ten years ago he’d been a successful lawyer making plenty of money. Then came the professor of African American studies, Columbia University, accused of reverse discrimination for his vociferous lectures, particularly the ones with that nasty anti-Semitic bias. Naturally, no one wanted to touch the case. Even the ACLU had hesitated. Richard Rothstein had not. The case was national news for six months: “Jewish Lawyer Defends Black Prof’s Right to Free Speech.” In the end, Richard had prevailed, as had his client, reinstated to his lectern, fueling the fires of hate.

That was his most famous case. His most lucrative? Keeping the CEO and senior partners of a very well known Wall Street brokerage firm out of jail, proving, against all odds, that it was not insider trading that had made the men their personal millions, but simply “coincidence.” For that bit of brilliant legal maneuvering Richard received his usual fee plus a seven-figure bonus, which he and his legal partner, the one who specialized in real estate, plunked down on an assortment of then-depressed New York City properties. Only a few years later, with the economy booming, they sold the land to a hungry real estate developer, and Richard’s seven-figure investment quadrupled. Then a keen money manager took the profits and made Richard Rothstein richer than most men ever dreamed possible.

It was soon after that that Richard took on the small case that came with a different sort of bonus: the chance to interrogate a young policewoman, Detective Kate McKinnon. He’d never forget her strutting down the courtroom aisle, all legs and attitude, tossing the long hair out of her eyes as she answered his questions.

The affair did not actually start until two months after the trial–Richard had to work up his nerve. His
nerve
? Richard Rothstein? “One of Manhattan’s Ten Most Eligible Bachelors,” cover story,
New York
magazine, fall 1988. But Officer McKinnon was something new for the handsome attorney.

Richard had tried to woo her with a series of expensive dinners–Lutèce, the Four Seasons, La Côte Basque–but it was a free opera in Central Park,
Tosca,
and the champagne and caviar and fancy French pastries that he’d brought for their picnic dinner that finally did the trick for Kate. For Richard it was watching Kate eat just about everything–so unlike the anorexic model types he was used to dating. That, and the easy way they talked, and the fact that they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. By the fifth date–a pizzeria in Queens, which Kate had chosen as an antidote to all those upscale eateries–Richard asked her to marry him and she said yes in between bites of pepperoni pizza.

And Kate had been good for him, had surprised him, too, the way she had taken to their new life, earning her Ph.D. in art history while completely reinventing herself, becoming a fixture on the New York social scene without losing her social conscience or her chutzpah–as his mom would say–along the way.

Yes, they were a good team, he and Kate. Though lately she’d begun to balk at one too many client dinners. Still, she knew how to put on a good show–even if she’d rather be out there hustling for Let There Be a Future, or figuring out ways to help artists pay the rent.

Richard tapped the sleep button on his computer; the dollar signs disappeared faster than profits on junk bonds in a bear market. He scrolled down a computer page of numbers for what seemed like the umpteenth time that day. Once again, the numbers did not make sense.

He pushed back from the desk, leaned into his plush office chair, massaged the back of his neck, but could not relax. He flipped a switch. Hidden quadraphonic speakers filled the office with his own private Billie Holiday concert.

“Good morning heartache . . .”

No, not what he had in mind. Another button. This time it was Bonnie Raitt, giving them “Something to Talk About.” Better.

Still, those numbers on his computer screen that refused to make sense nagged at him. Was it too late to call Arlen? The old man usually worked later than he did. He checked his watch. Already past seven.

Dinner. Damn.

He’d completely forgotten. Even if he left now, he’d be late.

A quick call to Bowery Bar. A message–he’d meet Kate later, at the performance–though he realized, as soon as he hung up, that he did not have the theater’s address.

He turned back to the computer, hit print.

Maybe he should pay Bill Pruitt a visit. But that idea struck him as even worse than sitting in a dank downtown theater watching some deranged performance artist nail his penis to a table–no way he could sit through anything like that. Again. Still, for Kate he’d do it.

Pruitt.
How the hell had that guy insinuated himself into the Contemporary Museum? He’d actually had the nerve, the audacity to be condescending about Richard’s art collection, which, damn it, anyone who knew anything knew was one of the best contemporary collections in New York, maybe the country. Today, at the museum’s board meeting, it was all Richard could do not to leap out of his seat, reach across the table, grab the guy by his double chin, and squeeze the life out of him.

Just thinking about Pruitt made Richard’s neck muscles practically go into spasms.

He yanked the page of numbers out of his printer so fast the last few columns smudged.

Willie nodded in time to De la Soul’s beat while he slipped into his new black leather jacket. William Luther King Handley Jr., Willie to his contemporaries, “Li’l Will” to the few remaining old school chums (a nickname tagged on in the eighth grade when he’d reached his full height of five feet six), and recently, “WLK Hand,” the signature he used on his funky mixed-media canvases, could not decide if wearing his pricey new jacket was pushing it a bit too far for some East Village art performance.
Fuck it.
He could dress any way he damn pleased. Anyway, he’d combined it with his usual black jeans, the frayed cuffs of which grazed his clunky black Doc Martens. The other high-priced item–the Yohji Yamamoto white shirt, which showed off his clear amber skin (from his mother’s side of the family) and green eyes (a genetic hand-me-down from his long-lost ancestor, John Handley, the white plantation owner from Winston-Salem)–was a gift from Kate, who would be happy to see him wear it. Kate, who was worse than his own mother when it came to how he dressed, if he was eating right, sleeping enough. Kate, who’d written about him in
Artists’ Lives,
made sure he was part of the PBS series, who’d gotten the first curators and collectors into his studio; and Richard, who’d actually bought the first painting, giving it, and Willie, the necessary stamp of approval. Mentors. Collectors. Surrogate parents. Kate and Richard were all that. And more.