The Death Artist (35 page)

“What?”

“Well, I don’t want to scare you, but these guys almost always confuse love and hate. Ultimately, they want to . . . kill their love object.”

“Exactly what my friend at the FBI said.”

“Liz Jacobs?”

“You know her?”

“No. But I know she’s in town, and that the two of you used to work together.”

“You guys don’t miss much, do you?” said Kate. She added a smile.

“We try not to,” said Freeman, who returned the smile, but it faded fast. “Look, I’m sorry to confirm what your friend said.”

“We got a man stationed at McKinnon’s house,” said Mead.

“Good idea,” said Freeman. “But you’ve really got to be on your guard, McKinnon. And I mean every minute.”

“I’m kind of hoping that he’s enjoying the game too much–manipulating me, playing with me–to want to go and ruin it by killing me.”

“Could be so,” said Freeman. “But eventually he’ll tire of the game.”

“He’s changed the rules,” said Kate. “Now he’s feeding us the art clues
before
he strikes. So he needs me around to figure them out.”

“That’s good,” said Freeman. “But no guarantee.”

“What about a bodyguard for Kate?” Tapell asked.

“Could scare him off,” said Freeman.

“And we need him close,” said Kate.

“We’ll keep an eye on her,” said Mead. “Meanwhile, Crime Search is poring over every inch of the last crime scene.” He handed Freeman the report. “These are brand-new, prelims. You might not have seen them.”

“Have you got Mobile on standby, Randy?” Tapell asked.

“Yeah.” Mead nodded. “And I’ve pulled in another dozen suits from General.”

Freeman pushed himself up from the chair. “I’ll give my report to the Bureau, Chief Tapell. They’ll be in touch.” He turned back to Kate. “Be careful,” he said. “I mean it.”

That last time was close. Too close. A half hour earlier and the cops would have walked in on him, ruined everything.

But you did it.

Truthfully, it’s hard to believe no one heard her screaming, the drug having worn off quicker than expected. He’d have thought a woman like that–supposedly interested in art–would let him do his work in peace. But no. One lousy stab into her gut and she’s squealing like a fucking banshee. Good thing she lived alone in that place, and that he’d brought that fishbowl to Krazy Glue over her mouth. That shut her up.

“But I managed it,” he says aloud. “Didn’t I? I mean, it was . . . beautiful.”

He thrusts metal pushpins through the recent photographs, stabs them into the damp, porous wall in a crooked row.

“Look at that, will you. I did a great job. Look.
Look.
” He yanks the earphones out. “Will you look, man. At the way her eyes are wide open, the way I draped her dress, removed her shoes. Exactly like that fucking Kienholz. No. Better. My piece is more . . .” He searches for the right word. “Alive.”

But now the only response is the coo of pigeons above, the lapping waves of the river. Did he give her too much information? Hell, that’s what made it fun. Of course he knew she’d figure it out. Just not so fast.

Caution.

“Don’t worry. I hear you. I’m adding something to slow her down next time.”

Like what
?

“Like moving the location.”

Not bad.

Jesus. Was that a compliment? He can hardly believe it. He feels, for the moment, the most exquisite sensation of–can it be?–approval.

He’s put a lot of thought into the next piece, wants it to be really subtle, challenging–for both of them. And this time he’s going for something really fantastic. He’s bored with solos. This one’s going to be a duet.

Now, his biggest problem is waiting. He needs to disappear for a while, even if it’s only a few days, make them wonder where he’s gone.

But how to satisfy his needs? Already there is that longing, the deep, almost crashing need. Will it work if there’s no audience? It used to, in the old days. Of course that was so long ago. He was a different person entirely. Now, things are expected of him. After all, he’s the death artist. And he can’t–he won’t–disappoint them.

The front parlor of Payard Patisserie was packed. Skinny women nibbled on salads. Housekeepers picked up boxed cakes. Nannies tried to control their young wards after sugar shock. Kate and Liz were huddled at a small table in this Upper East Side version of the famous French bakery. “I think he’s playing with me, disappearing like this. But still, I keep looking over my shoulder. I can’t sleep.” She pushed her salad aside. “Can’t eat.”

“If only that would happen to me.” Liz glanced at her half-eaten three-layer pastry concoction. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of it. Look, my guess would be he’s just protecting himself, gone into retreat.” She noted the neighboring tables before speaking again, careful to keep her voice down. “Serial killers are smart, Kate. You got too close. He’s backed away. But . . . he’ll be back.”

“I know that. Believe me, I won’t let my guard down. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

“Good. Just remember, his crimes are manifestations of his fantasies–which he’s acting out–and those fantasies won’t just go away.”

“No, but I’m pretty sure I can now figure out his fantasies based on the way he stages his crimes.”

“Serial killers are particularly cunning, Kate. They honestly believe what they are doing is normal and acceptable, which makes them very hard to catch. A significant percentage of them are never apprehended.”

“Oh, that cheers me up.”

“Look, I know you’re smart.” Liz peered at Kate gravely. “But every killing makes him stronger, more confident, more convinced that he’s smarter than you, Kate. And mentally sparring with a killer is a dangerous game.”

“I know. But it’s a little late for me to back off now.” Kate flagged the waiter. “Coffee, please. Black.” She sighed. “Hey, you know a guy from the Bureau, a shrink named Freeman?”

Liz shook her head.

“Well, he knows who you are and that we’re friends.”

“The Bureau never sleeps.”

“He seemed smart, plus he listened. I liked him. Didn’t hurt that he was good-looking.” Kate smiled. “At least this little vacation gave me time to have my hair done and get a manicure, though I thought I’d just about explode sitting in that chair. Which reminds me. The gala is tomorrow night. Did you get the dresses I had sent over from Bergdorf’s?”

“Yeah,” said Liz. “But I decided I’d be more comfortable in my plaid polyester jumpsuit.”

Kate didn’t even blink. “Which one did you choose–the black or the red?”

“I’m going with the red number. I’ve never had a Valentino–Rudolph or otherwise.”

“You’ll be stunning.”

“How’d you know my size?”

“I just asked for the biggest one they had.” Kate laughed.

“Bitch.” Liz slapped Kate’s hand, laughed, too.

Kate suddenly deflated. ‘Truthfully, Liz, I don’t know how I’m going to get through the event. All I can think about is the case, that this maniac is still out there, waiting, and that we can’t do a damn thing about it until he makes his move.” She sighed deeply. “I don’t know how I read those signals so wrong.”

“Obviously you weren’t alone. The squad agreed with you, didn’t they?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Liz patted her mouth with a napkin. “So, what other avenues are there?”

Kate took a sip of coffee, thought a moment. “Well . . . There’s the stolen art–the altarpiece that was snatched from Bill Pruitt’s apartment that never turned up.”

“I’d go back and rethink everything. That’s what you’d have done in the old days, right?”

Kate and Slattery were poring over the Bill Pruitt file for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“Usually they have two doormen working Pruitt’s Park Avenue building.” Maureen Slattery picked a piece of lint off her cotton sweater. “But that night, the night he died, one of the doormen had the Hong Kong flu or something. Let’s see . . .” She plucked the Pruitt folder from a mass of papers on her desk. “The one who
was
working said no one came up to Pruitt’s that night except for a well-dressed man in his forties. But he thinks that was a lot earlier than we pegged the time of death. And Pruitt must have okayed the guy because everyone is announced in that building.”

“Did the doorman see the guy leave?”

Slattery consulted her papers, shrugged. “Doesn’t say.”

“You mean no one ever did a follow-up on this guy?”

“I was the one who talked to the doorman. He didn’t remember the guy’s name. All he said was he was white, tall, in his forties, well dressed. Nothing suspicious about him.”

“Damien Trip was tall, dressed neatly. Maybe a little young for that description.” Kate tapped her finger against her lip. “Was the doorman ever shown Trip’s picture?”

“Uh . . . no.” Slattery looked down. “I would have done it, should have, but things snowballed kinda fast, you know.”

Kate caught Slattery’s guilty look. “Forget it, Maureen. It wouldn’t have made any difference.” She lifted Trip’s arrest photo from Slattery’s file. “But I think I’ll show his picture around just for the hell of it.”

“The doorman admitted to a couple of breaks that night–three minutes for a pee and five minutes for a cup a coffee.”

“That means at least ten to empty his bladder, fifteen or twenty to refill it.”

“Probably.”

“So someone else could easily have slipped through.” Kate lifted the toxicology sheet on Pruitt from Slattery’s desk. “Marijuana. Cocaine. Amyl nitrite. A two-point alcohol level. Jesus. Wasn’t that enough to kill the guy?”

“According to the lab, no. Pruitt was stoned, but it was all just traces–not enough to kill him.”

Kate looked again at one of the crime scene photos. “The coroner said that the bruise on Pruitt’s jaw was fresh, that it happened either during the assault, or sometime just before.” Kate thought a minute. “Were there any prints on the scene that were never typed?”

Slattery rustled through the papers. “There were two sets of unidentified prints, which didn’t link up with anyone on file. I guess until we catch our unsub we got nothing to compare them with.”

Grecian urns in glass cases. Black-and-white marble floors. The lobby at 870 Park Avenue could have passed for an antiquities gallery–if only the men in uniform were guards and not doormen.

Kate found the one who was on duty the night Pruitt died.

“I already talked to the
police,
” he said, regarding Kate suspiciously. She looked too much like the well-dressed women who passed through these doors every day to be a cop. “I gave them my statement–many times.”

Kate displayed her temporary ID, along with a photo of Damien Trip.

The doorman’s frosty mien melted. He took the photograph into his gray-gloved hand, leaned back against the in-laid marble wall. “No.” He shook his head. “I never saw this man. Sorry.”

“Are you sure? Never?”

“I’m certain.”

“According to your statement, Bill Pruitt received a visitor that night.”

“Yes. But it’s not the man in your photo. He was older. And not blond.”

“Can you describe him? Any distinguishing features that you might remember?”

“Well, he was tall. And wearing a raincoat.” He closed his eyes, sucked on his lower lip. “But his face is a blur.”

“You remember his
coat
but not his
face
?”

The doorman looked slightly abashed. “A lot of people pass through this lobby.”

“You must have announced him to Mr. Pruitt. Do you recall a name?”

The doorman looked down at his perfectly polished shoes, frowned. “It was a crazy night. I was working the door alone. Patrick had the flu, and no one else was on, and so . . .”

“That’s okay.” Kate patted his arm.

Could there be something in Pruitt’s apartment that might link him to Trip? They already had the Amateur Films porno tapes–what else could there be? She couldn’t remember seeing Pruitt’s diary. And what about that damn altarpiece? She was here, she might as well have a look.

Bill Pruitt’s apartment could have been a set for
Masterpiece Theatre,
all dark wood and leather. Kate scanned the art-work–mostly French Impressionist, a few John Marin watercolor seascapes, a smattering of Early American prints, a couple of Steichen black-and-white photographs from the thirties, but not a sign of any rare Italian art–at least not on view. The furniture appeared to be in place, though the carved doors of a huge armoire were open, the contents–photo albums, rare books, a couple of antique vases–obviously rearranged, pushed into corners, or stacked on the floor in front.

In the library, Kate went right for Pruitt’s large oak desk. But the crime scene boys had obviously beaten her to it; every drawer was open, papers in disarray. The only things left were bills and canceled checks.

Had the killer gone through these papers, too?

Once more, Kate got that eerie feeling she had had at Elena’s apartment–that the killer had been here, that she was doing exactly what he had done. She could sense him like a shadow, hovering. She wheeled around. But there was nothing there. She took a deep breath.

At the scene of the crime–Pruitt’s bathroom–Kate found little: medicine cabinet empty, nothing on the tub’s edge. The only indication that a human being had ever lived here was a digital scale. Kate pictured Bill Pruitt in high black socks and starched white boxers weighing in, worrying about heart attacks, hardening arteries, strokes.
Poor Bill.
Those were, as it turned out, the least of his worries.

So what happened, exactly? Had the killer come in, interrupted Bill’s bath? Pruitt would have put on a robe to answer the door. Then what? They fought. Struggled. The man dragged Bill into the tub, held him under until he died? Or did he punch Bill, then fill the tub and drop him into it? Pruitt was stoned. He would not have put up much of a fight.

Kate tried to imagine the night. Pruitt dead, his body arranged like the painting
The Death of Marat.
Then the killer must have moved around the apartment in search of his memento. Was the altarpiece in plain sight? No, probably hidden. It was, after all, a stolen artwork. So the guy took his time going through Pruitt’s things.