The Death Artist (26 page)

“What? You crazy, man? What the fuck you doing here?”

“You’re in trouble, Henry. Big trouble.” Willie couldn’t see his eyes, but his brother’s fingers tightened on his arm.

“Wait for me out front, little bro.”

“This is
real
serious, Henry. You’ve got–”

“Wait out front.” Henry shoved Willie back toward the door, his strength always a surprise to Willie, considering how frail he looked. Henry slid back into the dark until the fire painted him orange again and he got that spoon back over the flames.

Outside, Willie kicked at shards of glass, stared up at those sad school windows with their sad colored-paper leaves, rain sprinkling his face, his hair. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Ten minutes felt like hours.

When Henry strutted out, high, smiling and bold, Willie felt as if he could kill him. “You are in big fucking trouble,” he said, producing the police-artist sketch, crumpled and damp, from his pocket.

Henry stared at the image, his hand shaking as he took hold of it, but his voice was cocky. “Goddamn it, man. This fucking thing. Hell, this could be anyone.”

“You think so,” said Willie, barely able to control his rage. “Then how come it took me about half a fucking second to recognize you? You think the cops won’t?”

The street lamp provided enough light for Willie to see the desperate look that suddenly animated his brother’s once handsome face, but it was enough to soften him–at least for a moment.

“Please, Henry, tell me. What were you doing at Elena’s place?”

Henry sagged. “I–I just wanted to see her. Nothing serious, man. Like . . . maybe have a drink, you know? Be with her.”

“Why?”

“I . . .” Henry stared down at the wet sidewalk. “I knew her since school, man. Since before I dropped out. You know that. I liked her. Is that so bad?”

“And that night–the night she was murdered? You were there.”

“But I didn’t
do
anything, Wil. You gotta believe that.” He paced under the sickly yellow light, his hands shoved into his pockets. “When I got there, her bell was out, but the front door was wide open. So I went up and . . . I saw her, all cut up. I . . . I just got out of there, fast. You believe me, don’t you?”

“I believe you–but there’s a killer out there, and the cops think it’s you.”

“What? They think I’m the goddamn death artist?”

Henry’s mouth fell open, then broke into a sickly grin. His cackling laugh cut through the mist.

“You think this is
funny
?” Willie grabbed him by the shoulders.

Henry’s hands were around Willie’s throat, fast.

Willie gasped, the muscles in his throat twitched for air. His big brother, no matter how wasted by drugs, could still overpower him. Willie pulled at Henry’s hands, tried to speak, but couldn’t. The yellow street lamp above was spiraling like a whirlpool, and he was falling into it, swooning.

A minute later–or was it an hour?–Willie was sitting on the damp sidewalk, stroking the sore tendons in his neck, Henry’s face coming into focus only inches from his.

“Oh, man. Oh, man. Forgive me.” Henry hugged Willie to him. “I didn’t mean it. It was the crack, man. I love you, Wil. You know that, don’t you?”

Willie eyed his brother gravely. Was it the drugs working that night at Elena’s? He stared into Henry’s face, the face of this junkie who was once the big brother he loved. “Yeah, Henry. I know that.”

“And you believe me?”

“I believe you.” Yes, he knew his brother. He wasn’t capable of murder. He wasn’t. Willie repeated the phrase–
he wasn’t
–in his head, trying to convince himself, almost believing it, too. But would anyone else? “Why didn’t you tell me this before, Henry?”

“I
tried,
man. Last time I saw you, but . . .”

Willie shoved the envelope of money into Henry’s hands. “You’ve got to get out of town. Before the cops find you.”

Henry licked his dry lips, fingered the bills.

“There’s five hundred dollars there. Get on a train or a plane or a bus, but get away.”

“I don’t have to run,” said Henry, some of that cockiness back. “I’ve got a place to hide out. No one can find me there.”

“Then go.” Willie sighed. “And don’t blow the money on drugs.”

“I’m almost clean,” said Henry, his face going soft. “A little crack is all. I’ve been off junk for weeks. You believe me, right?”

Willie thought of what their mother, Iris, would say–
You’re throwing good money away, son
–but he was doing it for her, too. The shame would kill her. Guilty or not, Henry was the perfect patsy. He took his brother’s hand, the one that only moments ago had been choking the life out of him. Henry squeezed back, this time with tenderness. Then Willie turned away, hurried down the street.

Forgive me, Kate. He’s my brother.

Richard was at the very last table in Joe Allen’s, on the bar side of the dimly lit, passionately old-fashioned watering hole. Kate couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he was giving the reporter his best smile, complete with that almost-wink thing he did.

Did he think he was cute? Oh, yeah. Leaning in toward the young blonde–Why did they always have to be blond?–Ms. Kathy Kraft of the
New York Fucking Times,
who was laughing, her bleached-blond head thrown back like Richard had just told her the fucking joke of the century.

This was definitely not what she’d had in mind.

But Kate would not let her mood get the better of her. No. She’d have a little fun.

She checked herself in the bar’s antique mirror. Yes, she’d had better days, but it was not her worst. She pushed her hair into shape, strutted half the length of the bar, hesitated a second until she was sure Richard had spotted her. Then, a quick scan down the bar. A few steps and she laid one hand on a Calvin Klein suit, the other on a Mr. Armani, then leaned in between the two of them. He stumbled back.

A toss of her hair, a bedroom smile, her best Lauren Bacall purr: “Oh, sorry to bother you, gentlemen, but I seem to have forgotten my cigarettes.” The suits started a fumbling contest for cigarettes and lighters.

Mr. Armani practically vaulted off his barstool. “Hey, join us.”

“
Please,
” piped in Mr. Klein. “Bartender”–he gestured–“a drink for the lady.”

Kate rewarded them with another warm flash of her hazel eyes, then a quick look in Richard’s direction. “I’d love to, but–” She angled herself to the left so that Richard got a full view of the show, then added another dazzling smile. “Really, I would just love to, but–” One more smile. “Thank you, gentlemen.” She felt their eyes follow her as she sauntered across the room.

Richard was already on his feet.

“Darling,” she said, unable to hide a mischievous grin.

“Ah, finally,” he said to the laughing reporter. “The
late
Mrs. Richard Rothstein. My wife, Kate.”

Kate took the reporter’s hand. “Am I terribly late? I’m so sorry.”

“That’s all right,” the reporter said. “Your husband’s been the most delightful company.”

“He always is. Aren’t you, darling?” Kate raised an eyebrow in his direction.

“But I’ve really got to be going.” The reporter stood, took Richard’s hand. “And don’t you worry about the tone of my article, Rich.”

Rich
? Kate’s other eyebrow arched.

“Thank you, Kathy.” Richard smiled, did that almost-wink again.

“Something wrong with your eye, dear? Your conjunctivitis isn’t coming back, is it?” Kate quick-turned to the young reporter. “Oh, it was just awful. Oozy and–ugh, never mind. It’s too disgusting to even talk about.”

Richard whisked the young reporter away, walking her to the front of the restaurant, holding her hand too long as they said good-bye.

No, she would not be angry. He was just paying her back for her performance. Still, she couldn’t resist serving up an aperitif in her best Walter Cronkite voice: “No.
Really
, Your Honor. We’re just good friends. And
honestly,
I had no idea she was
thirteen.
”

“And you’re what–
sixteen
? Miss Flirting-at-the-Bar?”

“I was simply bumming a cigarette.”

“Uh-huh. You left the poor bastards drooling all over their twelve-hundred-dollar suits.”

Kate kissed him, pushed the curls off his forehead. “I’m sorry I’m late. Really. Anyway, it gave you time to slobber all over Ms.
New York Times.”
She smiled. “Forgive me?”

“This time.”

She signaled the waiter for a drink.

“How was your day? Any more bruises?”

“Just on my heart.” Kate downed her martini as soon as it arrived.

Richard looked at her with concern. “You okay?”

Kate signaled for another drink, the flirty, giddy mood she had manufactured a moment ago deflating. “I don’t like what I’m discovering about Elena–” Her mind played a string of images: Trip, Washington, Elena dancing nude. She gulped half of her second drink, tried to wash that last picture away.

“Like what?”

“There are certain things that we never know about another person–no matter how close we are.” Richard stared into his tumbler of Scotch. “Maybe we aren’t meant to disclose every bit of ourselves.”

“I don’t like the sound of that, Counselor. Something you’re not telling me?”

Richard did not look up from his drink. “Don’t be silly.”

“Did Elena ever talk to you about boyfriends?”

“That was your department, wasn’t it?”

“Apparently not.” For a moment, Kate felt tears burning behind her eyes. Who cared about the boyfriends Elena did, or did not, tell her about? She was dead. Gone. Never coming back. She took another hit of her martini.

“You all right, darling?” He touched her hand.

“I’ll survive. I hope.”

“I’m sort of counting on it.”

“By the way, Bill Pruitt may have had a more interesting social life than anyone ever suspected.”

“Meaning?”

“Possibly sadomasochistic sex.”

“Nothing about that guy would surprise me.” Richard scowled, reached for his Scotch. “Any news on his stolen artwork?”

“Nothing yet. Does that surprise you, I mean that he may have been involved with art theft?”

“Yes–and no. I never trusted that guy.”

“Or liked him.”

“You know anyone who did?”

No, she didn’t. But at the moment, none of it was making much sense. Pruitt, Elena, Ethan Stein–why were the three of them killed? What was the connection? But there was just too much to think about at the moment. Her brain was over-loaded. Tomorrow; like Scarlett O’Hara, she’d think about it tomorrow.

BILL PRUITT–
THE DEATH OF MARAT
by Jacques-Louis David

ETHAN STEIN–
THE FLAYING OF MARSYAS
by Titian

ELENA–Picasso
SELF-PORTRAIT

Now she filled in more index cards with names and notes.

DAMIEN TRIP

DARTON WASHINGTON

JANINE COOK

Mrs. Prawsinsky

Winnie Pruitt

Kate pinned everything onto the wall, stood back, considered what was missing, and immediately started printing information onto more index cards, this time the particulars pertaining to each victim, which she pinned beneath their crime scene photos and art reproductions.

PRUITT

STEIN

SOLANA

Kate surveyed the wall. What was it she was missing?

Kate found her friend in the middle of the second row–or was it the third? She’d lost track.

“It must be you,” said Liz, squinting up at the name tag Kate had stuck to her cashmere sweater. “Behind those shades.”

“This place gives me the creeps,” said Kate.

“Shhh.” Liz rolled her eyes, whispered, “This is the FBI, honey. We don’t say things like that here.”

“No?”

“No.”

A couple of ramrod-straight agents, both tall, with identical crew cuts, passed without so much as a nod or a blink.

Kate leaned down, stage-whispered, “Replicants?”

“Oh, Jesus. You’re going to get me fired.”

“Sorry.” Kate bit her lip.

“So, about the checks you want me to run–who and what?” Liz whispered, then eyed the cubicles on either side of hers–one empty, in the other a guy with headphones over his ears.

“Ethan Stein–one of the vics. Also a guy named Damien Trip. Another named Darton Washington.” Kate pulled up a chair beside Liz. “I went on-line, but couldn’t find anything on either Trip or Washington. Stein had a website for his art, but nothing else.”