Color Blind (34 page)

K
ate slipped a thin black cashmere sweater over her head, and the bedroom went dark, and with it an image took shape—Rothko’s black paintings and then Boyd Werther’s studio and all those slashed paintings, words in blood; and then another image, indistinct—a faceless young man, a killer, color blind. Kate thought about her announcements promoting his show and wondered if he had seen them—and then the newspaper article, and worried.

“Are you listening to me?” Nola’s pretty face came into focus.

“Yes, of course.”

“I didn’t know you even liked outsider art.”

Kate had not told Nola the truth about what was going down at the Gallery of Outsider Art, and wouldn’t have bothered to mention it if Nola hadn’t caught one of the PBS spots. “I’m helping Herbert Bloom. That’s all.”

“Since when do you do promos for commercial galleries? I mean, isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Listen, my dear, it is merely a favor, I’m not getting a kickback on sales.” Kate sat beside Nola on the bed while she slipped on a pair of black flats, tried to hide the fact that her hands were shaking. “I’ll be home before you know it.”

A
small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk in front of the Gallery of Outsider Art.

That damn article, thought Kate.

One of the cops, appropriately dressed in black jeans and jacket, was checking names against a list.

“Private party, my ass,” said a tattooed woman whom he had turned away. “You’re letting all the guys in—what the fuck is that about?” She gave him the finger, muttered, “Queer,” and swaggered down the street.

Inside, the gallery was warm. Kate would have removed her jacket if her gun were not strapped under it.

Brown squeezed past a couple who were studying the psycho’s paintings, displaying that blasé expression Kate had demonstrated for the cops, many of whom were trying it too, though even in their artful black clothes they appeared somewhat out of place, wary cop eyes giving them away as they scanned the room.

Kate took in the chief of Homicide—white shirt, black sports jacket. “You clean up nice.”

“I’m roasting,” said Brown.

“Good to know. I thought it was my nerves—or hormones.” Kate looked past him and checked out the room. “Anyone suspicious?”

Brown angled his chin slightly to the left. “Over there. Near the back.”

“Guy in the shades. Gotcha. He looks a little old for the part,” she said, eyeing the guy, whom she pegged at close to thirty. She could see a couple of the cops were watching him too.

A middle-aged man beside Kate, one of the invited art collectors, was taking in a Bronx street scene. “A true outsider in every way,” he said. “Clumsy drawing, weird color.” He cast a jaded eye at the paintings. “But totally fascinating.”

“Love the obsessive doodling along the edges,” said the much younger woman on his arm.

Herbert Bloom, Sir Elton glasses halfway down his nose, made his way over to Kate and Brown. “I had no idea there would be so much interest. I’m taking names.”

“Names?” asked Kate.

“I’ve started a waiting list. I’ve already got two or three people for every painting.”

Brown looked from Bloom to Kate, mild disgust tugging at his lips. “These paintings are evidence, Mr. Bloom. They are not for sale.”

“Well, maybe not tonight, but…never?” The art dealer looked genuinely distressed.

A distinguished-looking woman indicated one of the psycho’s still-life paintings. “I’ll take the one on the end, Herb. It will look fabulous with my tramp art.”

Bloom gave Kate a see-what-I-mean look. “I’ll put you on the waiting list.” He turned and whispered to Brown. “I can sell them discreetly. No one has to know. The NYPD, your favorite charity, whatever you like, can get a percentage. Talk to your superiors. Someone. Anyone.”

“No,” said Kate and Brown in unison.

An anorexic-looking woman in skintight leather pants looped a spindly arm over Bloom’s shoulder. “These are
killer,
” she said, and laughed. “True memento mori. But I don’t think the color is going to work with my Native American paintings, you know, the ones you sold me last year, or my newest pieces with the tiny skeletons pressed into copper.”

“I don’t recall selling you any copper pieces,” said Bloom.

“I got them on my trip through the rain forest. I can’t remember the name of the tribe. But they’re
fabulous
. The skeletons are human.
Babies
. Just weeks old. They press the bones into soft copper. I don’t how they do it, but they’re gorgeous. Of course they’re illegal, but, really, I mean it’s not like they kill them. They just die. Might as well make use of them, no?” Her dark lifeless eyes slid over the psycho’s paintings. “Is it possible, Herb—I mean, doesn’t he make any darker-colored pictures?”

Kate leaned in. “I just thought you should know I’ve written down every word you said and I’m reporting you to U.S. Customs and Import and Export, and—” Kate hadn’t finished inventing her list when the woman bolted, Herbert Bloom trailing after her.

Nicky Perlmutter, sporting a black muscle-T and perfectly pressed black jeans, said, “Import and Export?”

“All I could think of,” said Kate.

“How about Freaks Anonymous?”

“How about the League of Human Decency?”

“Fucking necrophiliacs. They actually want to buy the sicko’s paintings. JFK’s golf clubs and Marilyn’s wedding band I can see, but—” Perlmutter spied a man leaning in close to one of the paintings, noted that several of the other cops were keeping an eye on him too. “You know, the Smithsonian supposedly owns Dillinger’s
member
. Now there’s a conversation piece I wouldn’t mind having in my living room.”

“Already bought it,” said Kate, and would have laughed, but felt a chill as a young man came into the gallery and the cop at the door signaled. The guy moved just behind her, silver-mirrored shades reflecting part of a painting and Kate’s own face right back at her. She slid her hand under her black blazer, fingertips flirting with her .45. Sunglasses guy was so close she could smell his cologne or whatever it was he used to spike his hair.

Perlmutter shimmied a bit closer, and so did Grange, the two men positioning themselves so that the guy was trapped between them.

“Hey, man,” said Spiked Hair to Grange. “You mind?”

Kate moved in, Brown just beside her.

He was about the right age, tall and thin, good-looking.

“Isn’t it difficult to see the paintings like that?” Kate asked, adding a smile to mask her anxiety.

“Like what?” He tossed his head a bit, and Kate’s reflected face jitterbugged in his mirrored shades.

“With the glasses.” Kate’s adrenaline was kicking in, heart rate pumping up a few notches. “Thought you might want to see all the
color
these have to offer.”

Perlmutter kept his eyes locked on the guy and another two cops caught wind of the scene and edged closer.

Spiked Hair whipped off his shades. “Don’t know why I’d want to see this stuff any better.”

“You don’t like them?” she asked.

“No. I think they’re awful.”

Would the psycho say that about his own paintings? Kate didn’t think so—unless he was a damn good actor. But she pressed. “What about the color?”

“It stinks.” He made a face. “I just came here to check out a real live psycho’s paintings, but truthfully, they give me the creeps.” He turned and his eyes met Perlmutter’s for a moment, then he flipped his shades back into place.

“Not our guy,” Kate whispered to Grange and Perlmutter. “He’s not interested in the paintings.”

“Could be an act,” said Grange.

“Not a blink or squint when he took off the shades,” said Kate. “And check out his wrists. I didn’t see any scars.”

“I agree with Kate,” said Perlmutter, eyes trailing after the guy.

Static emanated from Grange’s palm and he put it to his ear, none too subtly, and took off.

“Smooth,” said Perlmutter, staring after Grange.

“That’s Grange.”

“Cute, though.”

“Grange?”

“No. The guy with the hair.”

“Well, then, why don’t you keep an eye on him for another minute.”

“Fine,” said Perlmutter.

Kate moved into the center of the room, pivoted slowly, tried to assess everyone as best she could. The guy in the corner, the only other man wearing shades, was now chatting with a young woman, obviously putting the moves on her, no interest in the paintings. Everyone else was engaged in conversation. Many were simply too old, she decided; others were obvious couples. And most of them had been on Bloom’s guest list. Still, Kate could not relax, and that weird buzzing sensation had started and she wasn’t sure if it was her natural cop instinct on alert, or if there was something she was missing. She focused on one person after another until the crowd began to blur and the room went still and all the voices commingled into a locustlike buzz. A hand on her back and Kate spun around fast, hand going for her Glock. “Jesus, Mitch. Don’t ever do that.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m just a bit on edge.”

“Aren’t we all.” Freeman looked over the room, then glanced toward the entrance. “I hope they’re keeping a watch outside. He could be enjoying this from afar.”

“Don’t you think he’d want to experience it up close and personal—his first and
last
exhibition?” Kate spotted another young man slip in through the front door, alone, baseball cap low on his forehead, face in shadow. She nudged Bloom. “He on your list?”

The art dealer shook his head no.

The young man slowly made his way into the room, awkward, arms hugging his sides, practically glued to the room’s perimeter, carefully taking in each painting.

Kate and Freeman watched him, and they weren’t the only ones. Brown had caught him too, and he’d registered on several of the cops’ radar, their eyes trained on him as he inched his way around the gallery. Grange was closing in too.

He fit the description: early twenties, light hair falling into blinking eyes.

Blinking!

Kate cut across the room, fast.

Two cops, Class Clown and Dyed Blonde, moved in too, surrounding the kid, not making a move yet, though Kate saw Dyed Blonde’s hand twitch toward the weapon in her handbag.

Easy now.
Kate took another step, Perlmutter just beside her, Brown coming from the opposite direction, and almost at once there were six, maybe seven pairs of arms grabbing the kid, his blinking eyes opening wide.

The rest of the crowd quieted, everyone turning to see what was going on.

“Outside,” Brown hissed. “Take him outside.”

The air had cooled a bit, but there was heat coming off the cops.

“I didn’t do anything.” The kid’s voice was soft and high, touched by the South. “I wasn’t going to steal anything, I swear.” His eyes were blinking and twitching.

Guns were out now, handcuffs too.

Class Clown slammed the kid up against the brick wall. A couple of the art patrons peeked out the door, but they got bored and turned back in. The two cops on surveillance had bolted out of their car and were tearing across the street, weapons drawn. The agent impersonating a homeless man was up too. Within seconds, every agent from inside the gallery had joined them on the street.

Grange was nearly shouting into his wrist and then the van was screeching around the corner and more agents joined the scene

Class Clown had the kid’s arms stretched behind his back, pushing his face into the wall while Dyed Blonde slapped on the cuffs.

The kid strained to look over his shoulder, and there were tears gathering in his twitchy eyes.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Let him talk,” said Kate.

“Name,” said Brown.

“Bobby-Joe Scott.”

Kate could smell the fear coming off him.

“Why are you here, Bobby?” she asked.

“B-bobby-Joe.”

“Bobby-Joe.” She rested her hand on his arm, turned to Class Clown, who still had the kid’s neck in his hand like a vice. “Ease up.”

“Talk to me,” said Brown.

“What, w-what about, sir?”

“You. All about you.”

“I, I don’t know what to say. I’m an artist, is all. I, I make things, you know. Outta wood.” Tears were now streaming down Bobby-Joe’s young face, along with a thin ribbon of snot from his nose.

“What are you talking about?” asked Grange.

“I w-whittle, sir. You know, with w-wood, and a knife.”

“You got a fuckin’ knife on you?” Class Clown grabbed him again.

“Easy, Detective,” said Brown, then asked the kid, “Where you from?”

“Alabama.”

“You got some ID?”

“Y-yessir.” He swallowed hard. “My, my pocket. Back p-pocket.”

Perlmutter fished a worn brown wallet out of the kid’s jeans. Class Clown eyed the maneuver like he was about to make a crack. Kate noticed, vowed if he did, to personally break his jaw.

“This, this is, m-my, my first trip here, to N-new York, and, and…”

“Relax,” said Brown, tugging a driver’s license from the wallet. “Looks like this is indeed Bobby-Joe Scott, from Tuscaloosa, Alabama.”

Kate reached for Bobby-Joe’s arm, and the kid flinched. “Just want to see something,” she said, pushing up the sleeves of his jacket. “No scars,” she said, and looked into his face. He was a goofy-looking kid, gawky.

“How old are you?” she asked.

Brown answered reading off the license. “Nineteen.”

“I, I got my b-bus ticket in there too, sir. I just, just got here, yesterday.”

Brown slipped the ticket out from between a few bills, and a couple of traveler’s checks. “I think we owe you an apology,” he said.

Perlmutter plucked the key out of Dyed Blonde’s hand, undid the cuffs.

The kid rubbed his wrists.

Grange marshaled his agents, started sending them back to their posts.

Brown patted Bobby-Joe on the arm. “We’re looking for a very bad man, son. And we made a mistake. I’m sorry.”

“That fuckin’ eye twitch could get you in some deep doo-doo,” said Class Clown.