The Death Artist (5 page)

“Nothing gets rid of that smell,” Kate said in a voice so flat that it surprised her. When did it happen–this switch into her old self, the cop, whom she’d never wanted to be again? She could see from the look on Willie’s face that she was scaring him. But she’d already made her decision–or it was made for her. No turning back now. Not if she was going to do something about this. And no way this hideous act would go unpunished. No fucking way. “You
sure
you didn’t touch anything?”

“I told you. I don’t think so.”

“Don’t
think,
Willie. You have to
know.
”

“Well, I
don’t,
okay? I wasn’t in there long. I just don’t know! Shit. Shit.
Shit
!” He beat his hand against the brick wall. There were tears on his cheeks.

Okay, Kate would risk being human. She put her arms around Willie’s shoulders, and–boom! That was it: her hands were shaking, her chin quivering; one more minute and she would be fucking Jell-O. She pulled away fast. “Damn!” She sucked air into her lungs, tried to think of what to do next. Anything to keep from shattering. “There must be someone who saw something. Stay put.”

At the first-floor apartment she turned her diamond ring into her palm, rapped at the door with the back of her fist. No answer. Down the hall, behind the door of the back apartment, there were slow, shuffling footsteps, then a fraction of an elderly woman’s face, eighty, maybe older, appeared in the two inches between the door and the chain lock.

“Vat? Vat is it?” A scratchy voice heavy with Eastern European traces.

There were sirens in the distance.

“There’s been an . . . accident,” said Kate. “I need to talk to you.”

“You the police?”

“No, I–I’m a friend.”

The sirens were right outside now. What to do? Try to get something out of the old woman or go outside and protect Willie? The old woman made the decision for her, slammed the door shut. Whatever it was she would or would not say would now belong to the police.

The young cop taking Kate’s statement asked, “And then?”

“What?” A bulb popped, flashed inside the apartment. “Oh. Right.” Kate continued with facts: time she arrived on the scene, called the cops. Another flash. This time, Kate was blinded–and thankful for it. She’d been staring at the ME, who had her fingers deep in Elena’s mouth just as the photographer took his shot.

Kate went numb as a detective passed by, and then a couple of uniforms slid Elena’s corpse into a dark green body bag.

“Why do I do it? No one wants this shit! Who do I paint for?”

When was that? Two, no, three years ago. Just before it all started happening for him, when he was ready to give up, quit painting, get a nine-to-five. Willie close to tears. Elena, taking his hand, speaking in her soft but authoritative voice. “You paint for yourself. It’s important what you do, Willie, your painting. And someday people will see that. It’s real, Willie. It’s who you are. Hold on to that.” Elena looking at him, total belief, confidence in him, right there in her eyes, on her face. The beauty of that moment. He’d replayed it often, whenever he was frustrated, close to quitting.

For a moment Willie was still in the middle of that perfect moment with Elena, desperately trying to hold on to it.

Curiosity seekers had filled the block. A couple of uniforms kept them at bay. Lots of cop cars, double-parked, flashers going. More uniforms and suits with cameras, bags, cases, surged up the stairs past Willie, into the tenement.

Elena. Murdered.
At once so real and totally unacceptable. He should have insisted Elena get the hell out of this lousy neighborhood. And he had. Lots of times. But Elena always did what she wanted. Willie banged his hand against the wall, felt no pain.

“Hey,
you.
Tell me this: Exactly what the fuck were you doing here?” This from that guy on the upper landing, with the little NYPD notepad, now staring into Willie’s face. He was maybe thirty-five, with a flattop, in plain clothes–if you could call a maroon paisley bow tie plain clothes.

But suddenly Kate was there, too, laying her hand on the guy’s shoulder. “I
asked
him to meet me here. What’s the problem?”

Bow Tie turned to face her. “And you are . . . ?”

“Name’s Katherine McKinnon-Rothstein.” She thought fast. “Friend of Chief of Police Tapell’s.”

She saw the name register in the guy’s eyes, could feel him giving her the once-over–her clothes, Prada bag, even her uptown hair. The whole time he was making a sucking noise, as if he were trying to get his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth. “Randy Mead,” he said, not offering his hand, “Chief of Homicide, Special Task Force. And you’re here . . .
why
?” His eyes, which were already small, narrowed to horizontal slits.

“Because I know the girl,” said Kate.

“Well, the kid here was the first on the scene. He’s gotta give a statement. It’s procedure.”

“I know all about procedure.”

Mead’s bow tie did a little blip over his bony Adam’s apple. “Oh, really?”

“I was ten years on the force, in Queens,” said Kate. “Astoria. Homicide and missing persons my specialty.”

“Assstorrrria.” Mead rolled the word around derisively.

Willie was quiet, watching Kate, a look on his face as if he was either impressed or in shock. Had she ever told him she’d been a cop? She couldn’t remember.

“
Very
impressive,” said Mead.

“Some people thought so.” She crushed out a Marlboro under her heel. Mead, at about five feet ten, was practically cowering under her.

“Listen, man,” Willie interrupted. “You gotta do something about–”

Kate cut him off. “I’ll take care of this. Go wait in my car, Willie.
Please.
”

She led Mead back to the front of Elena’s building. He sucked his teeth like a pissed-off rattlesnake. “You might remember,” he said, “that he who finds the body is often the perp.”

“Don’t give me that Cop 101 crap, okay? I
told
you. It was all arranged. He was meeting me here. And the girl . . .” Kate stumbled a moment.
No. Not just some girl.
She could feel her emotions lining up at the starting gate, kicking up their heels like anxious Thoroughbreds. She took a deep breath. “And Elena,” she said calmly, “has been dead for some time. I’m sure you can see that.”

“Friend of our esteemed Chief Tapell’s, huh?” Mead offered up a low-rent smile.

“Look,” she said softly, “I don’t mean to step on your toes. I know you’ve got a job to do. I’m just trying to help, explain a few–”

“Well, that’s
real
sweet of you . . . Mrs. Rothstein, was it? But I think I can handle it from here.”

Oh, man. Kate had to hold back from lifting Mr. Chief of Homicide right off the ground by his stupid fucking bow tie, watch his face turn blue. For a minute, her hands were twitching by her sides. But she was cool. The truth was, all that anger, right there, ready to explode, scared the hell out of her.

She managed to occupy her hands with her cell phone, hit the auto dial for Richard’s office, but only got the machine. No luck with his cell phone either.
Damn.

Mead took the opportunity to split, confer with a couple of uniforms, then he turned back, spit out the words: “Hey! You! Missus, uh–ex-cop! And your friend. Hang around. We need statements from both of you.”

Even with the windows open, the air inside Kate’s car had gone sour. Willie could not hear what Mead and Kate were saying, but it did not look friendly–Mead pointing in his direction, then mumbling something to a couple of uniforms. Willie tried to signal Kate, but she’d already turned back into the building. More suits and uniforms followed her. What they did inside, Willie could only guess at. Dust for fingerprints? Photograph the scene?

Willie turned Kate’s ignition and switched on the radio, searched for something to distract him.

Babyface, crooning a sappy R & B ballad about becoming a father.

It was enough to make Willie think about the father he never knew. What was he like? Could he draw? Willie never asked his mother–she couldn’t draw at all–and it must’ve come from somewhere. Willie could feel the tears on his cheeks–for Elena, or the father he had never known?

Babyface slid into a high falsetto, but the words no longer made any sense.

The crackle of a police phone startled him. A cop in the patrol car beside him, calling in details: “Female, Hispanic, stab wounds . . .”

“
Excuse me.
” The man flashes the large Latino woman beside him a murderous look. Every time she strains to get a better view of the scene, her enormous straw tote slams into his thigh.

“Is exciting, no?” she says, staring up at the tenement steps, all the cops and technicians coming and going, then nodding at the police cars and ambulance and Crime Scene RV that are crowding the street, their sirens providing a shrieking slasher-movie sound track to the already cinematic scene.

“A girl’s death? A young woman’s life
snuffed
out? You call that
exciting
?”

The Latino woman’s dark eyes blink with shame. “Oh,” she says softly. “I did not know it was a girl. A young girl.” Then, suspicious, she asks, “How do
you
know this? You live in this building?” The woman squints at him, but he is no longer paying attention, because just then, when she asks her stupid question, his entire body stiffens, his eyes, ears, every muscle in his body shift, ever so slightly, but with absolute certainty, toward the brownstone stairs. For just now, Kate is stepping through the door, and quietly, almost imperceptibly, except to him, he gasps a breath.

Magnificent.

He stares, transfixed, as Kate fumbles to light a cigarette, sucks all that tar and nicotine into her lungs, where, he believes, he can actually see it cloud her organs, impede her pounding heart, still the adrenaline that is racing through her arteries.

He takes a couple of steps backward, allows the thrill-seeking crowd to offer up a shield.

Well, now, what do you make of it
?

He tries to telegraph this question to Kate, concentrating so hard that his head begins to ache.

Kate puffed on her Marlboro, her eyes on the crowd, but not really looking. If only
she
would remember that Cop 101 crap–the part about how some psychos enjoy being part of the scene, like to come oh-so-close, get all hot and bothered watching others clean up their mess.

And then she did.

Like the simple flip of a switch, the cloud lifted from Kate’s eyes. She scanned the crowd. But too late.

He’s already fallen back, swallowed by the throng. He can no longer see her. But that’s okay. He’s got to get moving. That feeling is coming over him again, even stronger this time. And the man is waiting. If he only knew what was in store for him.

“Damn it.” Kate flipped the ignition key. “You’re going to run my battery down.
Jesus,
Willie.”

Willie’s mouth opened as if he was about to say something, but no sound came out. He looked as if he might cry.

“Oh, fuck. I’m sorry.” Kate felt like a total shit. A part of her wanted to hug him and hold him, and cry for the rest of her goddamn life. But no way she could chance it. Not now, not here, in front of Elena’s building with a dozen cop cars and three dozen cops. And not if she was going to hold it together long enough to get some answers. “You’re going to have to give a statement,” she said, jamming in the car lighter, pulling a Marlboro from her pack.

“What were you and that asshole in the bow tie talking about, pointing at me?”

“About your statement, that’s all.” The lighter glowed like a hot coal. Kate inhaled, pulled more smoke into her lungs.

A couple of uniforms headed toward the car.

“It’ll be okay,” said Kate, leaning across Willie, popping his door open. “Just tell them the truth.”

“You’re not coming with me?”

“I’ve got something to take care of.” A deep breath. “Something I’ve got to–need to do.”

Willie flashed an incredulous you-are-a-rat-deserting-a-ship look, and Kate felt like one.

“Hey,” she said softly, her eyes on his. “You’ll be fine. I’ll call Richard, have him meet you at the station.”

Willie didn’t even look at her as he dragged himself out of the car.

Kate turned the ignition key, revved the engine, then rolled down her window. “Willie. Wait.” She offered up a couple of tissues. “Wipe the blood off your sneakers.”

“Hey.” Mead rapped on the windshield, a snarl tugging at his thin lips. “Where are you going?”

“There’s someone I need to see,” said Kate.

“Oh, really?” Mead’s snarl mutated into a tight smile. “Well, see them later. Right now you’re coming with me.”

Crooked. The goddamn painting is crooked.