The Death Artist (37 page)

He laughs. Won’t she be surprised. But can he really go through with it?

Do it.

“I’m not sure.”

Do it! You’re smarter. Invisible.

He thinks about that a moment. It’s true. Just look at the way he slips in and out of places, no one noticing. He really can be invisible–when he wants to be.

The receiver’s in his hand.

Really, it’s for her own good. He doesn’t want her getting complacent.

The sound ripped her from the nightmare.

Kate realized it was the phone ringing beside her bed. She reached for the receiver, her heart pounding. “Hello.”

“Hel. . . lo,” he said.

Still half in the dream, she asked, “Who is this?”

“You . . . know.” The voice was distorted, metallic, hollow-sounding, dead slow.

That was all it took. Kate was wide awake.
My God. Is it him
?

She remembered the wire tap Mead had put on her phone.
Keep him talking.

“Where have you been?”

“Resting.”

“Why?”

“Miss . . . me?”

Kate considered what she should say for a moment. Which answer was he looking for? “Yes,” she said. “I have missed you.”

She could practically hear him smile.

“I’ll . . . be . . . back.”

“When?”

“Look . . . for . . . me . . . tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“At . . . the . . . party.”

“How will I–”

But he’d hung up.

Kate listened to the dial tone, then quickly tapped in the code, got another voice, this one tired.

“Did you get that?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I got it.”

“Can you trace it?”

“I’ll try.”

Kate waited. Realized for the first time that she had fallen asleep in her clothes. She looked at the bedside clock. It was just after 5:00 A.M. No way she would get back to sleep now.

The cop came back on the line. “He wasn’t on long enough for a trace,” he said. “But it’s all on tape.”

“Get in touch with Randy Mead,” she said. “Right away. Tell him that the guy’s called me. And make sure that’s relayed to Chief Tapell, as well.”

Kate dragged herself out of bed. She wished Richard were here instead of on a plane to Chicago to take early-morning depositions.
Damn.
She could really use a hug.

Then she remembered the dream, the cuff link, and shivered.

She grabbed up the phone again, tried to keep her hand from shaking. Hell, it didn’t matter what time it was. She was calling Mead and Tapell herself.

Brown drummed his nails on the table. “Exactly how many guests are we talking here?”

Kate drew a deep breath. “About five hundred.”

“I’ve been on it since I got your call.” Mead sucked his teeth. “We got twenty cops for inside the Plaza, and two at every exit. Of course the FBI is supplying their own men.” He sighed. “And the FBI shrink, Freeman, is on his way over now.”

“McKinnon should wear a wire,” said Brown. “And I want to be there, too.”

“You’ll need a tux,” said Kate, working hard to keep her voice calm. “I can have one sent over for you. You’re what–about a forty-two long?”

“Forty,” said Brown, sucking in his gut involuntarily.

Mitch Freeman cut into the room a bit breathless. He smoothed back his sandy hair and slid into a chair. “So exactly what have we got here?”

“The fucking psycho called McKinnon,” said Mead.

“Says he’s going to show up at this charity gala tonight,” Slattery added.

“I know that. Tapell filled me in.” Freeman nodded at Kate. “What else?”

“Well, he hasn’t given me any art clue to interpret,” said Kate. “It’s a departure from his ritual.”

“These guys absolutely
must
have their ritual,” said Freeman. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t show up.” He offered Kate a prudent look. “He might tend to his ritual
after
the fact–if you get my drift.”

Kate fought a chill, hugged her arms close to her body. “I can’t imagine him trying something in front of five hundred people.”

Freeman thought a minute, then his eyes met Kate’s. “Unless he’s become totally delusional.”

There were four men in the room. Three of them staring at the walls.

The guy taping the mike to Kate’s diaphragm looked about seventeen–no beard, slight acne on his forehead–and seemed to be taking an awfully long time. She had goose bumps on her arms; God knew where else.

“You finished?” She could feel the smooth edges of his fingers pressing tape to her rib cage. “How am I supposed to breathe?”

“Carefully,” he said.

Mitch Freeman stood beside Floyd Brown, rocking back and forth on his heels. Brown talked to the wall. “Make sure that mike’s in good working order,” he said. “Where’s the van going to be?”

Another detective, angled away from Kate’s half-stripped body, said, “Just behind the Plaza. Don’t worry. That mike is good for several miles.”

“Look,” said Freeman. “If he
does
show up, you have to keep your wits about you.”

“What should I do? Ask him to dance?” Kate joked, though her body shuddered.

“Truthfully,” said Freeman, “that wouldn’t be a bad idea. This guy wants to be close to you.”

“I was
kidding
,” said Kate, swallowing hard.

“I know you were. Look, we have no idea if he’ll show or what he might do. My best guess would be that he simply wants to observe you. He’ll use the crowd as his shield. On the other hand, these guys tend to think of themselves as superhuman, so you never know.”

“Would he actually
talk
to me?” Kate fought another shiver.

“Maybe.” Freeman turned, caught a glimpse of Kate in her black lace bra, quickly looked away. “All I’m saying is that you have to stay alert to any weird people or actions, anyone who might want to touch you.”

“Jesus, Freeman.” Kate expelled a deep sigh. “There’ll be hundreds of people kissing me or shaking my hand.”

“We’ll be right next to you,” said Brown. “You have a place to keep your gun?”

“Not my Glock.” Kate could feel anxiety rising like heart-burn.

“I’ll get you a small thirty-eight. You can strap it to your leg, under your skirt.”

“Look, chances are he won’t do anything even if he shows,” said Freeman.

“You just saying that to make me feel better?” Kate glanced down at the kid taping the mike. His cool fingers were making her tremble. “You finished?”

“One second. There,” he said. “You’re all taped up.” He spoke into the mike. It was as if he were whispering into Kate’s navel. “Testing, testing . . .” The words echoed from the listening device across the room.

“Just take it slow and easy,” said Freeman.

“Oh, sure,” said Kate, trying to button her blouse with shaking fingers. “Only fox-trots.”

With the mike taped across her ribs, the sleek, body-clinging Armani Kate had purchased for this event just wouldn’t work. She looked as if she’d sprouted a third breast.

She combed through her closet, pushed dresses aside until she found a John Galliano number she’d bought on impulse in Paris the year before, and had never worn–a bodice covered with ruffle upon ruffle. What had she been thinking? Ruffles were never her thing. Well, tonight they were. She could hide a machine gun in all that froufrou.

Kate laid the dress on the bed.

It was too late to call Richard. His plane would be touching down at LaGuardia any minute.

If only he’d told her about the fight with Pruitt before. Too late to think about that now.

In the bathroom, she tried to apply her makeup, but her fingers were trembling. She had to calm down. Be on her toes tonight, as Freeman had said. She had all those guests to assuage–and the threat of a maniac, lurking.

The thought did not help her relax.

She sat on the edge of the bed, took long deep breaths, grateful for that weekly yoga class she hadn’t had time for in weeks.

Ten minutes later, Kate was calm enough to apply mascara without blinding herself.

She twisted her hair up into a French knot. It was not salon-perfect but it would have to do. She slipped on a pair of black panty hose, and then her dress. The ruffles worked. Her chest was an ocean of wavy black chiffon. No unsightly bulges.

She checked herself in the mirror. Not bad.

Beneath all those ruffles, the tape on the mike was pulling at her skin. She shimmied her hand down below her bra, tried to pick at the edge of the tape, but it didn’t help. She’d just have to live with it. It suddenly brought back another memory. That last case. Ruby Pringle. She was wearing a mike that day, too; thought maybe she’d come face-to-face with that guy instead of the body of that poor kid.

I know where she is because I know where I put her.

The note. Red Magic Marker like dried blood.

Jesus.

Kate tore down the hall to her office, her satin party dress billowing. There it was on the corkboard wall: the image the death artist had sent–Kate with wings and halo, outlined with red marker, and the word HELLO.

The writing was similar.

Kate closed her eyes: Ruby Pringle, spread out on a sea of wavy plastic, aluminum foil surrounding her head, jeans pulled down.

An angel. A naked angel.
Could it be
? Plastic wings. A foil halo.

The death artist? So many years ago? Kate’s mind raced with the names and faces of people from her past. Who could have followed her–and why?

She stared at her wall of crime scene photos–all those art-posed deaths.

Was Ruby Pringle an early attempt at art? The scene was not as specific as what he was creating now. But why not?

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.”