The Death Artist (27 page)

“What exactly are you looking for?”

“Basically anything and everything you can dig up on them–all the way back to grade school. Is that possible?”

“I can go into the FBI website. You wouldn’t believe what they’ve got in there.” Another furtive peek at the guy with the earphones. He wasn’t listening. “What were those names again?”

Kate supplied the info while Liz tapped one code after another into her computer.

Fifteen minutes later Kate was collecting a sheaf of papers the printer had spit out. “Have I learned this computer shit, or what?”

“Impressive,” said Kate.

“Me, or the info I got you?”

“Both.”

Kate read through them quickly. The more she read, the faster her adrenaline pumped.

Kate huddled around the conference table with Mead, Brown, and Slattery.

Brown tugged on a pair of plastic gloves, laid a small soft-covered book on the table. “Ethan Stein’s appointment book.” He opened to a flagged page. “Ten A.M., D. Washington. Studio visit.”

“Let me see that,” said Kate, pulling on gloves. “This is only two weeks before Ethan Stein was killed. Jesus, Brown, I wish you’d shown me this
before
I talked to Washington.”

“The lab was going over it until now. And let’s make absolutely certain it’s your D. Washington.”

“He owns one of Stein’s paintings,” said Kate. “I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet. Any other significant names in Stein’s diary I should know about?”

“Slattery’s done the checking.”

“Thirty-nine personal interviews with gallery owners and directors,” said Slattery. “About a dozen had their names in Stein’s date book. Lotta uptight people in your business, McKinnon.”

“Please,” said Kate. “I’m not in the
business.
”

“Whatever.” Slattery shrugged. “The only suspicious character so far is a guy who owns the”–she surveyed her list–“the Ward Wasserman Gallery, on Fifty-seventh. Snooty place, I’ll tell you. Anyway, the owner, Wasserman, has his name in Stein’s book six or seven times. He got very agitated when I asked about his whereabouts on the nights of the murders.”

“I know Ward Wasserman,” said Kate. “He’s a lovely man. A tad high-strung, that’s all.”

“Well, he may be
lovely,
” said Slattery, rolling her eyes, “but in case you didn’t know, he now controls the Ethan Stein estate. And his gallery’s not wasting any time. Wasserman is already planning a memorial show. And I asked about prices. Twenty to thirty grand for white paintings seems like a shitload of moola to me.”

“Not really,” Kate said, then modified her statement when she saw the three sets of incredulous eyes. “Well, yes, of course, thirty thousand is a lot of money. What I mean is that it’s not a lot for an artist of reputation, who is now dead. Stein may have been in a slump recently, but he was an important part of the Post-Minimal art movement.” Mead, Brown, and Slattery continued to stare at her, bewildered. “Post-Minimal,” she said. “As in
after
the first wave of Minimal art. Stein’s white paintings are paintings about painting–about painting
language.
”

“You mind putting that into
our
language?” said Mead.

“Think of it like science–one discovery or invention leading to another. The same is true of art. Say one artist reduces painting to pure color. Then another, like Stein, reduces it to pure white brushstrokes. It’s an
idea
of what painting can be at its most basic, in its most reductive state–just strokes on a canvas.”

Mead yawned.

“If you say so,” said Slattery, “but I’m still putting a tail on Wasserman. The guy had a lot to gain by Stein’s death.”

“Fine,” said Kate. “But it’s a waste of time. Ward Wasserman is a lamb.”

“I think that’s what they said about Ted Bundy,” said Mead.

“By the way, I went over the copies of those calendars–Perez’s and Mills’s–that you sent over,” said Slattery. “Perez recreated his Palm Pilot, but I’d say it’s pretty loose. Mills, on the other hand, has his life mapped out by the minute–when he ate lunch, with whom, practically tells you when he took a leak.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” said Kate. “He’s a meticulous guy. Have you cross-checked their alibis for the nights of the murders?”

“Some,” said Slattery. “A few still pending.”

“Get on it,” said Mead.

“Clearly Mills and Perez had opportunity,” said Kate. “They were both there that night, at Elena’s last performance.”

“Yeah, but what about motive?” asked Mead.

Kate shook her head. “None that I can think of.”

“I got the latest stolen-art printout from Interpol.” Brown laid it on the table. “No altarpieces this month.”

“Maybe not. But it was on an earlier report I saw at the Delano-Sharfstein Gallery.” Kate laid the card of Ethan Stein’s
White Light
on the table, explained where she got it. “Damien Trip had this reproduction of Stein’s work right on his desk. Also, he lied when he said that he and Elena Solana had broken up
six
months ago. Her friend Janine Cook says she saw them together, Elena and Trip, about a week ago.” Kate glanced up at Mead. “I want to search Trip’s place.”

Mead sucked his teeth. “You can bring him in for questioning, McKinnon. But for a search you need reasonable cause.”

“Damien Trip was Elena’s boyfriend. You know the statistics. A woman’s murdered, you check the husband or boyfriend. Eight times out of ten, he’s your man.” Kate looked from Mead to Brown. “Okay. Look. Suppose Trip
did
kill her. Just suppose. And now I’ve talked to him. So now, he’s a little spooked.”

“But you didn’t ID yourself as police,” said Brown. “Why would a friend of the vic’s spook him?”

“Must you have
all
the answers, Brown?”

“Only the right ones.” He leaned back in his chair.

“Brown’s just trying to watch out for you,” said Mead.

“Everything’s by the book nowadays. You screw up, McKinnon, your ass is on the line.” He tugged at his pink-and-blue-striped bow tie. “Of course, with the chief of police as your friend, it’ll be
my
ass that’s fried, not yours.”

“I can live with that.” Kate offered a wry smile. “Okay, you want some reasonable cause?” She retrieved the large stack of printouts she got from Liz. “Lots of interesting info here.”

“Where’d you get all this?” Mead plucked a paper from Kate’s hands.

“FBI Manhattan. I’ve got a friend there.”

“Seems like you’ve got friends everywhere, McKinnon.”

“I’m a popular girl, what can I say?” She offered Mead an arched eyebrow. “Nothing terribly interesting about Darton Washington except that he has a juvey record, though it does not say what, exactly. I’ll have to check further. But look at this on our boy Trip. First of all, he was arrested for transporting minors across state lines when he was twenty-five. And this–” She folded Trip’s printout for Mead. “Art school, Pratt Institute, Brooklyn, New York. Fine arts major. Trip’s got the art background for these crimes. Now look at this.” She handed Mead a printout on Ethan Stein.
“His
Pratt Institute transcript. Also fine arts. And exactly the same years as Trip. They were classmates, for Christ’s sake.” Kate flipped another page. “Check out Trip’s school record. Here: Suspended from high school three times for fighting; once for punching out a teacher. The boy has a violent temper. And if you look at the Pratt transcript, you’ll see Trip failed painting. Failed advanced drawing, too. About the only thing he was good at, according to his painting teacher, was copying–which is particularly interesting, don’t you think? He left school–or rather, was
asked
to leave–in the middle of his junior year. Now look at Stein’s transcript: Top of the class. Graduated with honors.”

“That doesn’t prove Trip killed him,” said Mead.

“No,” said Kate. “But it confirms a connection between the two men. They knew each other.” She shuffled through more papers. “Somewhere in here is Trip’s NYU film school transcript. He only made it through one semester. Another failure. Oh, and there are a few foster-parent reports regarding Trip’s early years. He was always in trouble.” Kate shook her head. “Though the kid had it rough, I’ll admit that.”

“Oh, another poor little orphan, huh?” said Slattery.

“Get me copies of all this,” said Mead, looking over the FBI printouts. “Plus anything else you have on Trip–the drugs–everything. I’ll get you the warrant. But you’re taking Brown along with you.”

“I can handle a search,” said Kate.

“I’m sure you can,” said Mead. “But you’re going with backup.”

What to add to the reproduction? Maybe this, maybe that. The process almost as much fun as the act.

And now that he’s documenting his work, even better.

In a long row along the pitted wall, he pins up the Polaroids of Ethan Stein: close-ups of the artist’s leg, then chest, the skin being removed in ever-expanding inches of gore.

Lovely.
So lovely it causes his cock to strain inside his shorts. He won’t look at the pictures right now. It’s too distracting.

He sits back, wonders if she’s figured out that little piece of tape he sent her. If so, she must be going crazy. And a mind clouded with emotion, well . . .

He studies the reproduction in front of him, the chair, the coat, the figure with those glass rods shooting out of her belly. Ethan Stein’s scene was relatively simple. This next one is going to be complicated.

And it’s a birthday card.

Now all he has to do is find someone who’s having a birthday.

“Anything incriminating,” said Kate, trying to avoid the question.

“You wanna be more specific?”

“Just a routine search,” she said, pushing the car door open, coming face-to-face with a youngish black man, his hair wild and matted. “Beautiful lady . . . how you doin’ today?”

“I’m doing just fine,” said Kate, peeling off a couple of dollar bills.

Brown took her arm roughly, steered her toward the building. “Why’d you give that man money? You John D. Rockefeller, giving handouts to the poor?”

“I just haven’t been called beautiful in a while; is that okay with you?”

Brown shook his head. “People like you just don’t get it.”

“People like me?”

“That’s right. Rich people. White people. Liberals. You think you’re helping that man? You’re helping him all right–helping him stay just the way he is. But as long as it made you feel good, that’s all that matters, right?”

“You missed your calling, Brown. You should have been one of those Sunday-morning TV evangelists.”

“The black man doesn’t need
you
to do for him what he can’t do for himself, McKinnon. Every time you give a handout to someone who should be doing for themselves, you’re keeping him down.”

“Okay, you’ve got me. I admit it. Guilty as charged. Third-degree white liberalism.” Kate thrust her hands toward Brown, her wrists together. “Cuff me, Officer.”

The super told them that Trip had just gone out, handed over the keys to his place. Kate and Brown made the four-flight climb.

The place was empty. Stale cigarette smoke hovered in the outer office. Kate got a look at some of those invoices Damien Trip had been trying to shield–all for videos or video equipment. Nothing incriminating. Still, she pocketed a few, then rummaged through Trip’s art cards. No more Ethan Stein reproductions.

Behind that second steel door they found a huge white-washed space, windows boarded up, dead quiet. In the center, a professional-style video camera was trained on a king-size bed with rumpled lavender sheets, flanked by a couple of halogen lights on stands.

What Kate was looking for, hoping not to find.

Tucked into a corner was a beat-up wooden table stacked with cassettes and magazines; beside it, two televisions with VCRs beneath them.

“Looks like Mr. Trip’s taste is not exactly literary,” said Brown, plucking copies of porn magazines from the table–
Amateur Couples, Young Virgins, Swinging Times.

Kate held her breath.

Brown handed her a pair of latex gloves, pulled on a pair himself before lifting a spoon from the table, which he dropped into a plastic bag. Next he bagged the contents of an ashtray. From under the bed, Kate retrieved a syringe. Without speaking she handed it to Brown.

They worked in silence, moving about the room taking samples like astronauts on the moon.

Down a hallway, a tiny bathroom. The blue-green water in the toilet might have been disinfectant, but more likely it was mold; the sink was slick with hair and grease. The medicine cabinet’s mirror was cracked. Inside, Kate found a few promising vials, which she bagged.

Behind a half-wall, Kate and Brown discovered metal bookshelves crammed with cassettes. She plucked one out. On the cover a blonde displayed silicone-enhanced breasts. She tugged out a few others–
Thighs Wide Shut, The Bitches of Eastwick, The Return of the Pink Pussy
–all courtesy of Amateur Films. Students of film, all right. Another time, another place, she might have laughed. But not here, not now, knowing what she was looking for.

Brown, cradling an armful of cassettes, said, “Let’s take a look, see what we find.”

Kate sucked in air, wanted to stop him, but how could she?

Without speaking they hauled dozens of cassettes beside the TV sets. Brown loaded the VCRs.

The videos were a bit grainy, the color off. Familiar, thought Kate. Too familiar.

Both televisions were going. Five minutes on fast forward to view a sixty-minute film, Kate hardly breathing.

Fifteen minutes and several cassettes later, she saw Janine Cook, naked except for a pair of thigh-high black boots, whipping some middle-aged fat guy in a leather hooded mask. Kate slowed the film.

“That’s Elena Solana’s friend Janine Cook.” Kate stared at the screen. “Wait a minute. That guy–” She hit fast forward, but nothing much changed, more whipping, red welts appearing on the guy’s mushy chest.