The Death Artist (19 page)

“Exactly one inch below my panties.” Kate made the sign of the cross. “Virtually impossible for me to bend over. If I dropped a pencil, that was it, lost forever.”

The two women laughed like schoolgirls.

Maureen locked her gun into her holster as they headed toward the locker room.

“Anything new on the cases?” asked Kate.

“Checked out Perez. His dinner companions–couple of downtown artists–say they dropped him home right after dinner.”

“But did he
stay
home?”

Slattery shrugged. “Don’t know. But he also says he was out of town when Ethan Stein was murdered.”

“I’m waiting for his calendar. Schuyler Mills’s book, too. Then we’ll see what they
say
they were doing on the pertinent dates and check it with others.”

“Right.”

“How about Mendoza?” asked Kate. “Did his alibi check out?”

“Mrs. Solana is sticking with her story that he was with her all night.”

Kate nodded. She was grateful that Maureen had handled Mrs. Solana and Mendoza. She just wasn’t up to dealing with Elena’s mother. “Anything else?”

“Pruitt’s effects are in the Evidence Room, on three. Check ’em out. Then I’ll tell you the rest. Oh, and wear gloves, and I don’t mean because you’ll mess up the evidence. The room’s a sty.”

Floor-to-ceiling open metal files. Cardboard boxes. Some of them had been sitting there so long they had spiderwebs thick enough to wear as sweaters.

The Evidence Room. Kate was almost sorry she’d gotten the clerk to open it up.

“Over here,” he said, sniffling. He was young, maybe twenty-two, a slight case of acne on his otherwise smooth cheeks. “All the new cases are in this corner, bottom shelf. I think Pruitt should be right over there.” He pointed, then rubbed his nose. “Allergy. Dust, I think.”

“Boy, do you have the wrong job.” Kate offered him a sympathetic look.

“Mind if I get outta here?” His nose was twitching.

Kate took in the grim room, a black spider inching its way along the wall. More than a few minutes and she’d be itching and twitching, too.

The Pruitt carton was sad. A bar of soap in a small Ziploc bag; a washcloth, also bagged; a larger plastic pouch of toiletries–shaving cream, razor, a bottle of rosewater eau de toilette.

Within the large carton, there was a smaller one. Kate pulled on the required gloves.

Right on top, another Ziploc bag with WILLIAM MASON PRUITT printed on it in bold black marker. Kate popped it open, regarded the obvious S and M mask, the crude stitching around the holes for eyes, nose, mouth.
Could this possibly be Bill’s
? If his name weren’t written on the bag, she’d never believe it. She rooted around in the carton, came up with a stash of magazines, mainly porn. A few of teens, boys and girls, not young enough to qualify as kiddie porn, but cutting it pretty damn close. Kate was fairly disgusted, then somewhat stunned when she found the four or five devoted exclusively to young black transvestites, another group of sadomasochistic porn that made the flaccid mask look tame.

Under the skin magazines, over two dozen videos, XXX variety. The usual suck-and-fuck pictures on the covers, but these, particularly cheap-looking, lived up to the name of the company–Amateur Films–spelled out in bold black lettering. Maybe something worth watching–someday–if she had the stomach for it.

Maureen flashed a smile. “You saw the stash? The mask?”

“Yes. And it was a hell of a surprise, believe me. Bill Pruitt.” Kate shook her head. “You never know.”

“Get ready for more,” said Slattery. “I did a little bar-hopping, the Branding Iron and the Dungeon, down by the piers.” She made a face, mimed a shiver. “You ever been to those places?”

“Oh, sure. I put my husband in a dog collar every Saturday night, drag him over.” Kate raised an eyebrow. “So?”

“The back room of the Dungeon–some guy in chains, suspended there for the customers. One’s got a fist up his ass, another’s gagging the guy with his dick.”

“A regular Hallmark moment.”

“You got it. Anyhow, our guy, Pruitt? I showed his picture around.”

“And?”

“He was a regular. Oh, and you might find this interesting. A list of what they took out of Ethan Stein’s studio. Some very tasty items.”

Kate scanned the list. “Jesus. No dignity in death, is there?”

“Not when you’re into this kind of stuff.”

“Wait a minute–” Kate focused on the last group of items. There were artists she knew of who used that kind of dark subject matter in their artwork–but not Stein. This must have been strictly for personal use. “This is too weird. I mean, Stein and Pruitt, obviously dabbling in the same sexual arena.”

“Uh-huh.” Slattery handed Kate a one-page typed report. “And get this. A report from the uniforms I sent off with Ethan Stein’s driver’s license. They also showed Stein’s picture around the Dungeon and Branding Iron.” She threw Kate a look. “Pruitt was not the only regular.”

“Jesus. You think Stein and Pruitt ever met there?”

“No one can actually put them together at either place, or they just don’t remember.”

Kate was trying to take it in. “Can it possibly be a coincidence that these two guys had the same predilection, hung out in the same bars, and are both now dead?” Kate shook her head. “When can I see Stein’s personal effects?”

“Brown’s got his date book and wallet. Ask him.”

“I will.”

Slattery shifted gears. “By the way, the old lady, on one, at Solana’s building . . .”

Kate thought back to the night she found Elena, the glimpse of the old woman’s face through the cracked open door. “Yes. I talked to her. For about ten seconds.”

“Well, she says she was home, watching TV. Uniform took her statement that night. Says she saw a black man in the apartment building. But that was all he could get outta her. No details. No nothing. I tried, too. Nada.”

“Let me take a crack at her.”

Kate dropped the paper back onto her desk. She never thought she’d be reading the
New York Post
so damn often.

The death artist
?

He lays the newspaper carefully onto the table.

Was it Kate who figured it out? He focuses on the crack of light streaming through the old rotting beams. He hopes so. If not, it would be such a waste. Of course it was Kate. Who else had the information?

Still, he hadn’t expected her to figure it out quite so soon.

She’s smart. Smarter than you.

He grabs his Walkman, rams the tiny headphones into his ears, but the voices are more powerful than any music.
Moronmoronmoronmoronmoronmoronmoronmoron . . .

Hands clasped over his ears.
SHUT UP
!

Scattered over the tabletop, the copies he’s had made, Kate with wings and halo, replicated a dozen times. It soothes him to look at them, even chases those voices away. For the moment.

Lately, he’s been trying to make sense of his dreams, the nightmares, this other person inside him. A brother? A twin? This one who has been with him, it seems, forever–quietly at first, then stronger, until the demands just had to be met.

Cycles: Dormant. Active. Controlled. Fierce.

How clearly he can think about it. No way he’s crazy.

Which one is he? Does he even know?

He wanted to send her those things. It made him feel so close to her. And now he’ll send another. He lifts a red Magic Marker, uses it to create a border around the image, and then, just for fun, writes HELLO in large block letters.

But this is just a gift. Just to show her how important she is to him–just for being so smart that she figured out the first part so swiftly. Not that it was such a big deal to figure something out
after
the fact–and with his help.

But now he is gearing up for part two.

No more mementos. These will be warnings.

His fingers stroke the Walkman’s smooth plastic body.

Will she get it?

Well, that’s her problem.

Careful.

He turns the Walkman up against the voices.

Who needs to be careful when you’re lucky and smarter than everyone else?

His mind is ticking away so fast, excited by the prospect of creating previews of coming attractions.

Let the games begin.

No response. Kate knocked harder.

“Vat is it?”

Kate maneuvered her temporary ID into the three inches of open space. “Mrs. Prawsinsky? Sorry to bother you. Police business.”

The chain lock released, the door opened. Five feet tall, five-one tops. Kate towered over her. Penciled eyebrows, turquoise-shadowed lids, scarlet lips Lucille Ball-style. Straw-like yellow hair crimped with bobby pins against her scalp like anemic snails. “I already talked to the police,” the woman said. “Lots of them. You want I should make something up new to tell you?”

“I just need to ask you a few more questions.”

“So? Ask.” The elderly woman folded her thin arms across the top of her flowered housedress.

“You said you saw a black man here, in the building.”

The old woman nodded, but that was it.

“Can you describe the man?”

“Honey. Can
you
tell them apart?”

Kate stifled an urge to slap the woman. But no, she had a job to do, and it was not delivering a lecture on cultural diversity. This was a lonely woman; she had to work with that. “Mrs. Prawsinsky,” she said warmly. “You’re a woman living alone in a tough neighborhood. I can really appreciate that.”

“Dahlink, you don’t know the half of it–”

“Oh, I do know,” Kate said patiently. “That’s why I’m sure you have to be extra diligent.” She offered the old woman a sobering look. “Now I sense you’re a
very
observant woman. Is there anything–and I mean anything at all–you can remember about this strange man in your building? I mean, was he young, old, tall, short?”

The woman squeezed her eyes shut, pursed her thin lips. Crimson lipstick creeped into vertical whistle marks. “Medium. I’d say he was medium.”

“See, you remember plenty. That’s terrific.”
Medium? That tells me absolutely nothing.
“What else?”

“I would say he was between thirty and forty. And . . . ” She squinted again. “Skinny. Very skinny.” She opened her eyes, smiled, proud of herself.

“That was
very
helpful, Mrs. Prawsinsky.” Kate was relieved. The description eliminated Willie–he was young, short, solidly built.

“What else? Any distinguishing marks about him? You know, anything special?”

“What do you mean special, dahlink?”

“Scars? A limp? Like that.”

She shook her old head. “No. Nothing. But . . . now I can see his face.” She squinted again, getting into it.

“And?”

“Mmm . . . It was a couple of nights before they found her, the girl. It was night, late. I know it was late because I was watching that Nick at Nite station. You know, the oldies station. My favorite.”

“Oh, right . . . ”Kate took a deep breath. “Mine, too.”

That did the trick. Minutes later Kate found herself in Mrs. Prawsinsky’s cramped living room, an exact duplicate in layout of Elena’s. But where Elena’s desk would be–the focal point of Elena’s spare apartment–was Mrs. Prawsinsky’s twenty-two-inch color TV, its static glow casting overgrown rhododendrons and plastic slipcovers in shimmering electric tones. Kate perched on Mrs. Prawsinsky’s plastic-slipcovered sofa, balancing a cup of weak Lipton tea on her knees.

“Me
. I watch every night,” Mrs. Prawsinsky said.
“I Love Lucy, I Dream of Jeannie, Bewitched.”
She lifted a bowl with packets of Sweet’n Low. “Sugar, dahlink?” Kate shook her head no. “I love the mother, you know, Agnes Moorehead. My friend Bunny, God rest her soul, said I look like her, Agnes Moorehead, on
Bewitched.
” She raised her chin, posed.