The Death Artist (31 page)

Mead nodded, folded his hands tightly. “Okay, people. Trip’s arraignment is set for next Thursday. Meanwhile, I want you to pull everything together on the guy and get it to the DA.” He looked from Kate to Brown. “You two, go back and search every inch of Trip’s place.”

“Anything in particular we’re looking for?” Brown asked.

“I want to see every video in that place–every letter, every invoice, every scrap of paper. I want to see his fucking underwear, for Christ’s sake! I want this case tighter than a virgin’s pussy.” Mead wiped the sweat off his upper lip. “Anything I’m missing? I don’t want us getting caught off-guard here.”

“One thing,” said Kate. “Darton Washington. There’s Ethan Stein’s diary entry, plus the phone records that prove he was in contact with Elena Solana just before she was murdered.”

“Get on it,” said Mead.

Kate found the detective behind a desk piled high with stacks of papers, four or five empty Fresca cans, what looked like a half-eaten tuna on rye with the lettuce picked out and wilting on some curling wax paper. The detective looked up, pulled a hand through his thick salt-and-pepper hair.

“You called. Said you had something for me?”

“Right.” He started shifting everything around frantically, the Fresca cans, tuna sandwich, stacks of paper. “It’s here somewhere, I swear.”

“How do you find
anything,
Rizak?”

“I got a system.” He dumped the empty cans into an already overflowing trash basket. “Here it is.” He handed Kate a single sheet of paper with one short paragraph, typed. “We ran Pruitt’s stock portfolio through the computer with all the names you gave me–Solana, Stein, Washington, Trip. Only one match.” He tapped the paper in her hand. “Darton Washington. He worked for FirstRate Music. Pruitt was a major stockholder.” Rizak shuffled more papers, found what he was looking for on a crumpled Post-It. “My notes,” he said. “I called FirstRate, asked about Washington. He was fired three weeks ago. And according to the CEO, guy named Aaron Feldman, there was a lot of pressure to dump the rap music division. Considered too smutty, or something.” Rizak made a who-cares? face. “But the one leading the battle against all that dirty-mouthed rap music was your very own William Pruitt.”

Kate gave Rizak’s shoulder a tap. “Great work. I’ll let them know about you in homicide.”

The detective grinned, scooped up his tuna on rye, took a big bite.

A schizophrenic library: one side dusty narrow corridors of shelves stacked with boxes; the other, a row of fancy new computers. Kate attempted to fill in forms as quickly as possible.
Darton Washington fired because of Bill Pruitt.
Now she wanted to check further, see what that juvey case was all about.

The clerk rapped her nails along the counter as if she were practicing “Chopsticks” on the piano. “I was supposed to go on break five minutes ago,” she chirped in nasal Brooklynese. She glanced down at Kate’s ID, then up, gave her the once-over. “You don’t look familiar.”

“Working with Mead” was all Kate offered.

“Lucky you.” The clerk rolled her eyes, plucked Kate’s request from her hand, disappeared behind her computer.

Kate filled the time staring at a wall of police notices: a party for the Benevolent Society, a recruitment poster for Big Brother, a couple of apartment-share requests from rookies.

The clerk’s pale face came back to the window, framed, picking up a greenish glow from the computer. “We got about two hundred Washingtons on microfiche. Of that, sixty-three Ds.”

“Oh. Sorry. His first name is Darton. D-A-R–”

“Yeah. Yeah. I can spell.” She disappeared again, then was back, sat, sighed, punched something into the computer. “Okay. Washington, Darton. Yeah. Here we go.” She slapped another form onto the counter.

“What’s this for?”

“You want the printout? You gotta sign for it.”

“So you found it?”

“Washington, Darton. Two arrests. Assault and statutory rape.”

Kate peered through the two-way mirror into the Interrogation Room, watched as Darton Washington twisted a chunky gold ring around his index finger, his powerful body squeezed into a wooden chair that looked as if it could shatter.

Her first thought had been to race all the way down to Washington Street, but she was just too tired and, truthfully, she liked having the security of the police station around her–she sensed more than a little rage behind Washington’s polished veneer.

Kate mustered what remained of her vigor as she walked into the room.

“What’s going on?” Washington’s eyes sparked with anger.

“I need to ask you a few questions.”

He shifted his muscular bulk; the chair creaked. “I’m not saying a word until I call my lawyer.”

Kate handed him copies of his two old rap sheets.

“This
? Are you kidding? I was
seventeen
when I had that fight. Assault, my ass. And this other one–did you even bother to read it all the way through? I was
cleared.
Get it? No conviction. That girl looked older than
me
! Fifteen? She looked thirty.” His fists were opening and closing as if they were being mechanically pumped. “My lawyer had it dismissed.” He rapped the table. “Why does it even exist? I want to see my lawyer.”

Kate kept her voice level. “By all means, talk to your lawyer. If you were seventeen, this should have been expunged. As for the other one, I don’t know. But it’s still in the program, and nowhere does it say it was dismissed.” She spread her hands on the table. “Look, Darton. I don’t care about that.”

“So then why am I here?”

“You owned an Ethan Stein painting–”

“And there’s a law against that?”

“You went to the artist’s studio a week before he was murdered.”

“No. I did not.”

“Your name is in Ethan Stein’s date book.”

Washington shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I canceled that appointment. I was tied up at work.”

No way Kate could prove or dispute that–now that Stein was dead.

“I was thinking about buying another one of his paintings, particularly since his market was low. I liked his work. I already told you that.”

“But you didn’t tell me you had planned to see him only a week before he was murdered.”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

“Really? A man is murdered–a man you were supposed to visit–and you don’t find that important?”

Washington smoldered, said nothing.

“Did you know William Pruitt?”

“No.”

Kate let a moment pass, continued to speak in a matter-of-fact manner. “You didn’t exactly leave your job at FirstRate Music voluntarily, did you, Mr. Washington? You were fired.”

“And your point?”

“My point is that William Pruitt owned a substantial amount of stock in FirstRate Music. And according to your boss, Aaron Feldman, it was Pruitt’s fault you lost your job.”

Washington’s dark eyes flashed. “A bunch of lily-white assholes afraid of a little music. But you know what? Pruitt did me a favor. I’m a lot happier out on my own–I told you that last time.”

“So you did. You just omitted the part about knowing Bill Pruitt.”

“I didn’t
know
him.” Washington eyed her with contempt. “I knew who he was, knew he was the one leading the lynch mob against us crazy jive-talkin’ niggers.” Washington laid it on thick. “But I never met the man.”

Kate looked into his eyes. “Knowing that Pruitt was the man who had you fired is enough of a motive.”

“I told you. He did me a favor. I’m better solo.”

“Maybe,” said Kate. “Suppose I decide to believe you on that point. Will you level with me–about Elena?”

He folded his arms across his massive chest. “How so?”

“You
were
involved.”

Washington stared at her, said nothing.

“Darton.” Kate leaned toward him. “You fit the description of a man who Elena Solana’s landlord says was more than an occasional visitor. You want me to get the landlord down here, put you in a lineup, or do you just want to tell me the truth?”

“Okay.” Washington’s huge shoulders sagged. “We were involved.”

“So what happened?”

“It was going along fine–at least I thought so–and then, boom, she dumped me for another guy.”

“You know who that was?”

Washington’s eyes slid off Kate’s toward the dull gray walls. “I saw her one time with the guy–she didn’t see me–a blond guy, tall, slim, maybe thirty-five, he had his arm around her.” Washington’s hands curled into fists again. “She dumped me for a white guy. Way of the world, isn’t it?” He laughed, ironic, no gaiety in it. “I followed them. Saw where he lived. Got his name, too.” His eyes had gone black. “Damien Trip.”

“But you and Elena spoke again. And Darton, please remember–we have the phone records to prove it.”

“Yes. No. I hung up on her. She wanted my help, but . . .” He looked down at his hands.

Kate’s voice took on an insistent tone. “Why did she want your help?”

“I think Trip was scaring her, but . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t listen. I thought, oh, now you want my help, do you? She’d hurt me, you know, and–
Fuck
! Why didn’t I listen?” His body stiffened again, but there were tears in his eyes. “Fuck,” he said again, but this time only a whisper.

“We’ve talked to Trip.”

Washington sat upright. “Thank God.”

“Well, let’s not thank him yet. Trip’s got a very good lawyer.”

“You let him
go
?’

“We had no choice.” Kate sighed.

Darton Washington flexed his shoulders; the ropy muscles in his thick neck stood out in high relief. “You’ve
got
to get him.”

“We’re trying to.”

“Don’t just
try.
” His mouth twitched with fury. “
Do it.
”

Kate could feel his rage. But was he just trying to deflect suspicion from himself by putting it on Damien Trip? “You want Trip out of the way, that it, Darton?”

“Don’t
you
?”

“That wasn’t my question.” Kate dragged a chair close, sat. “Let me recap, shall I?” She counted off on her fingers. “One: Elena Solana called you. Days later she’s dead. Two: Ethan Stein has your name in his date book. Days later
he’s
dead. Three: You get fired. A couple of weeks later the man behind your firing is dead. I’ll tell you something, Darton. From where I sit, it doesn’t look good.”

“And from where I sit, it looks like coincidence. I was not in Elena Solana’s apartment for weeks. I didn’t make it to Ethan Stein’s studio because I was cutting a demo. And I never met Pruitt. You’ve got nothing tangible to connect me to any of these crimes.”

“Not yet,” said Kate. “But I’ll be working on it.”

Washington stared down at his hands, just barely whispered, “I loved her. Elena.”

Unrequited love? Hell, that was an even stronger motive. “So you loved her and she rejected you,” said Kate.

“I didn’t kill her.” Washington looked up, his brown eyes moist. “I told you. I loved her.”

Kate rapped on the half-wall of Maureen Slattery’s cubicle. “You have a message for me?”

“Oh, McKinnon.” Maureen looked up, fingers resting on her computer keyboard. “Yeah. Got a message from Brown. He’s out in Brooklyn. Something about the Shooter case, from months ago. Said to tell you he’d meet you at Trip’s, along with a tech team, at six P.M. Also, you should bring the warrant in case Trip is on the premises.”

“Thanks.”

Maureen tilted her head at the bulletin board above her desk, where she’d pinned a reproduction of
The Death of Marat.
“Hey, I was wondering, like, why’d this painter, what’s his name, David, paint it in the first place?”

“He was Napoleon’s court painter,” said Kate. “He painted lots of historical scenes. This was just one of them. In those days, if you wanted something documented or recreated, you needed a painter to do it. Of course that all changed when photography was invented.” She glanced over at the reproduction, thought of poor Bill Pruitt as a weak imitation of Marat. “I’ll get you a book of David’s paintings. Wait’ll you see his
Coronation of Napoleon
painting. It’s a knockout.”

“This death artist might turn me into an art lover yet.” Slattery laughed.

Kate laughed, too, then got serious, filled Slattery in on her talk with Darton Washington.

“You think we’re jumping the gun on Trip–that Washington could be a suspect?”

“It’s completely possible,” said Kate, considering the question. “But I believed him when he said he loved Elena.”

“Always a popular motive for murder.”

“I agree,” Kate said. “But we’ve got nothing to prove he was at the Solana scene. No prints. Nothing to DNA. He says he was out of town when Elena died, home alone the night Pruitt was drowned, cutting a demo CD in a midtown studio from late afternoon till almost two in the morning the night Ethan Stein died. I’m having all the alibis checked out, but we had to let him go–for the moment.”

“We should put a tail on him. Trip, too. I’ll speak to Mead about it.”

“Good idea.” Kate’s foot was tapping, her adrenaline starting to pump in anticipation of the search. She checked her watch. She had an hour to kill. “You want to get a cup of coffee?”

“Love to. But I can’t. Mead wants the reports of the gallery and museum interrogations on his desk, ASAP.” She gave Kate the once-over. “You look tired, McKinnon. Why don’t you take a rest before the search?”

Kate could use a rest–like a month on a Caribbean island, for starters. She checked her bag to make sure the search warrant for Damien Trip’s apartment was still there. “Maybe later,” she said.

He glances across the room at the still life, the plate of rotting fruit, a few slices of deli turkey now sprouting green and blue mold, all drenched in rat poison, and the rats–in various stages of decomposition, here, there; one gagging, choking, its tiny red eyes ready to explode out of its skull.