The Death Artist (41 page)

“It might be a good idea to check and see what other unsolved cases could be the death artist’s work,” said Tapell.

“No offense,” said Kate. “But looking at old cases isn’t going to do much but prove he’s been active all these years. The fact is that for the past ten years no one knew the guy’s ritual because it kept changing, kept
looking
different. But now we know his ritual is based on art. Nobody had that information before. It’s a totally different ball game now. We can get him. All we have to do is wait for him to send me another clue.”

“What if he decides not to?” asked Tapell.

“Oh, he will,” said Kate. “He
wants
me there. I know it.”

“I agree,” said Freeman. “And this time we have to work fast, be ready for him.”

“We will,” said Tapell. She regarded Kate with a frown. “I heard a rumor that you were thinking about leaving town. Going to Venice?”

Kate shook her head. “Forget it.” She shivered, though the room was warm. Is this what the death artist wanted, to control her life, manipulate her, keep her here, bring her there? “I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s true. That last time was awfully close. But he figured it out, didn’t he? Had the timing down perfectly. It was that stupid woman’s fault for not showing up.
Damn.
He wishes he could have stayed to finish the job.

He feels a slight stab of regret. But no, he will not permit it. That’s history. The past. It’s over. Not everything can be a masterpiece.

After all, even he is human. He’s allowed the occasional imperfection, isn’t he? And it wasn’t bad, nothing to be ashamed of. Okay, the color wasn’t perfect–the old man’s blood a little thin, anemic, but the spirit of the painting was there, and that’s enough. She got it.

She got it too fast.

“Not really,” he says, staring at the wall of shiny tin. “But all right. I’ll slow it down.”

No. Keep going. Do it.

The tin wall distorts his face, reflects someone totally unrecognizable. He moves in closer, runs his hand over the metal as if caressing his misshapen features. “Who are you?”

You are me. I am you.

He shakes his head, watches the face in the tin twist and turn. He pulls back. It dissolves.

He shoves Nathan Sachs’s hand out of the way–the thing looks like a shriveled claw, purple-brown flesh, fingers curled up–and dips into his carton of art cards and reproductions. He needs something to ground him. Make him feel safe. Yes. He should do it now. While he is at the peak of his powers. And really, why not? He has thought about it for so long, knows just the kind of image he wants to use–something wonderfully grand and mythic–something that will suit her perfectly.

He sets to work. Replaces the blade in his X-Acto knife, checks his glue. Not even the voices can distract him. An hour passes. His table is a mess, covered with scraps of paper. But the finished product is simplicity itself. Clear. Bold. Iconic.

Still, when he holds it up, a swell of sadness overtakes him. This isn’t like giving up one of those inane photographs or a tuft of hair. This is major. This is it. Her. She. The one.

Are those tears on his cheeks? He’s not surprised to see his gloved hand is wet when he wipes his eyes.

Be strong. Remember, you are superhuman.

He straightens his shoulders. Yes, he can do this.

But what about later–when she’s gone? God, he’s going to miss her.

You can always find another muse.

Charlie Kent placed her passport and airline tickets together with her schedule of Venice Biennale events, slid them all into her burnished leather Filofax. Now she opened her closet–an act that never failed to soothe her, this feat of absolute space maximization, and the one true luxury in her modest apartment.

Twenty floor-to-ceiling shelves. Eight pairs of shoes per shelf. Suede, alligator, snakeskin, patent leather. Pumps, flats, heels. Dressy, casual, sporty, elegant. Buckles, bows, clasps, ties. Two shelves, made taller, just for boots. All arranged by color: white to beige, beige to tan, tan to brown, brown to rust, rust to orange, orange to red. Three shelves devoted entirely to black.

Charlie sighed, an expression of pure contentment. She selected nine pairs for her two and a half days in Venice, then spent the next twenty minutes putting each pair into its own chamois string bag, and then, only then, carefully nestled them between the layers of clothes in her suitcase. She threw in a sexy pink nightgown.

There had been virtually no opposition from the small board at Otherness to covering the cost of Willie’s accompanying her to Venice–not after she had acquired that major WLK Hand directly from the artist. Charlie thought Morty Bernstein, chairman of the board and avid collector of Willie’s work, was going to bend over and kiss her ass.

Charlie smiled, glanced over at the drawing Willie had given her, already framed, hanging right above her bed with all the other artwork she had received, over the years, as gifts from so many aspiring artists.

Oh, this was going to work out just fine.

And she had bigger plans than the Museum for Otherness. She’d already met with a few select members of the Contemporary board, let them know that she, and she alone, had the vision to bring their museum into the twenty-first century. Not that creep, Raphael Perez, whom Charlie had made it her business to besmirch whenever possible, or Schuyler Mills, that was for sure. No, the job would be hers.

She glanced back at her open closet. Perhaps one more pair of shoes, just to be on the safe side; the blue-and-white Chanel spectators, which she hardly ever wore in New York, but which were just perfect for Venice.

Raphael Perez tossed four pairs of Perry Ellis bikini briefs into a small leather Coach bag opened on the couch just below a spotlit poster of his very first exhibition for the Museum of Contemporary Art–“The Body Beautiful: Eating Disorders as Art.” Images of women ramming fingers down their throats, inserting enemas, vomiting, brought a smile to Raphael’s lips.

Venice, he knew, would be a lot of work. So much to do: attend the best parties; schmooze the right people; deal with that bitch Charlie Kent; ignore his co-curator, Schuyler Mills–all of which would be very easy with so many collectors and museum people he needed to suck up to.

He opened the top drawer of his perfectly distressed armoire, selected two handkerchiefs, a favorite blue silk and a paisley print of olive green, which he tucked beside the briefs. Director of the Museum of Contemporary Art. Yes, the title suited him perfectly. And with Amy Schwartz retiring, and Bill Pruitt dead, who was going to stop him?

Willie wished he knew what the weather was going to be like in Venice. Should he bring his new leather jacket? Why not? If it got hot, he could always take it off.

He folded two white shirts, the plain black tie Elena had bought him for his very first gallery opening–his good-luck charm–into his backpack along with his Discman, six or seven CDs, underwear, his standard toiletries.

He considered packing the bottle of expensive-looking English cologne Kate had given him months ago, unscrewed the pewter cap, splashed a little into his palms, patted his cheeks. The slightest smell of lime, a hint of orange, refreshing, clean. He liked it. Leave it to Kate to find the perfect scent.

Willie glanced up at a half-finished painting, one Darton Washington had admired, even expressed interest in buying only a few weeks ago.

He’d been trying to get past it, Darton’s death, and all the anger he felt. But it was not just anger. That would be simple. Willie balled up a pair of socks, squashed them into the backpack.

It was also the guilt. The fact that he’d deceived Kate. That he’d given his brother, Henry, money to lie low. If he was really honest with himself, he knew that was why he’d let Darton Washington’s death drive a wedge between him and Kate.

Willie reached for the phone. He should call her. She’d been through a lot of shit. Maybe even more than him. But he just couldn’t do it.

Fuck.
He wondered if she missed him as much as he missed her.

Thank God he was getting out of town for a few days.

He tucked a black leather belt into his backpack.

An image flashed before his eyes so fast, it sent him careening backward. It was like the last one, the one he had had in the car–
Kate, struggling, in water.
Except this time he was in it, too. But he wasn’t struggling. He wasn’t moving at all.

Willie opened his eyes, but could not see. Another blinding moment of darkness. There it was again:
Murky water. He and Kate.
Then it was gone.

Brown drummed his nails on the edge of the conference table. Mead sucked his teeth. Mitch Freeman, usually cool, was cracking his knuckles in between loud sighs. Slattery chewed gum, popping it loud.

That did it. Kate looked up. “Maureen.
Please.
Stop making that obnoxious noise.”

“Me?”
Slattery spit the gum into a trash can. “What about them?” She looked from one man to the other.

“What’d I do?” asked Mead.

“Everyone,” said Brown, “just cool it.”

They were all huddled over the death artist’s latest creation.

He had kept them waiting. But not for long.

“Okay, let’s just get through this, shall we?” Once more, Kate regarded the work in front of her–a painting of a man tethered to an ancient pillar, his body pierced with a dozen or more arrows, Kate’s face pasted right over the man’s.

“It’s
Saint Sebastian,
” said Kate. “By Andrea Mantegna. He’s a fifteenth-century Italian painter.”

“With your face,” said Slattery.

“It’s the photo of you from the
New York Times
,” said Brown. “From the gala.”

Kate took one of her yoga breaths. She’d been waiting for the death artist to get around to her. It was inevitable. She’d felt him getting closer and closer. And here it was. Finally. Just the two of them. “I complete the pie,” she said. “I’m the art writer.”

“Oh, you’re a lot more than that,” said Freeman. “You’re his prize.”

His prize.
The words reverberated. Kate moved the magnifying glass over the image of the saint, trying to keep her hand from shaking. “No hidden drawings this time. Just my picture over the saint’s face, and the saint pasted over the other reproduction, which is Canaletto’s
View of the Grand Canal.
” She took another deep breath. “No mistaking the message. He’s telling us who and where: Me. In Venice.”

The death artist had sent her an invitation. Should she let him pull the strings again, let him lure her to Venice? She could picture him, thinking about it, about her. Planning. Yes, she had to do it. “I’ll go,” she said. “I have to.”

“Hold on,” said Mead. “It’s way too dangerous.”

“Mead is right,” said Freeman.

Kate thrust her shaking hands into her pockets. “He’s expecting me. I can’t disappoint him.” Her gut was twisting into a knot. But she wouldn’t show it.

“How am I supposed to protect you over there?” asked Mead.

“I didn’t know you cared, Randy.” Kate managed a wry smile. “But I have to go.”

Mead’s lips were tight, brow furrowed. “Let me talk to Tapell. See if she can set something up with Interpol and the Italian police.”

“The Bureau can handle that,” said Freeman. “We can deal directly with Interpol.”

“Let me go with McKinnon,” said Slattery.

Mead considered it a moment. “Maybe. I don’t know. Let me think.”

“Might not be a bad idea,” said Freeman.

“I could go, too,” said Brown.

“No way,” said Mead. “I can’t have all of you there. Someone’s got to stay here in case this is just a ruse to get McKinnon out of town.”

“No,” said Kate. “He doesn’t work that way.”

“His call to you, before the gala, was a ruse.” Mead sucked his teeth. “You forget that?”

“His call was just to yank my chain, to toy with me,” said Kate. “There was no art in it. No plan. Nothing he had to follow through on.” She tapped the image of the martyred saint. “But this is
specific.
Clear. He’ll see it through–or try to.” She ran her hands through her hair, then clasped them in her lap to keep them from shaking.

Freeman sat forward. “I think she’s right. She should go. I’m sure the Bureau could supply a team to protect her.”

Kate shook her head. “If I’m surrounded by a bunch of crew-cut American robots, it’ll be obvious they’re FBI. It’ll just scare him off.”

“I see your point,” said Freeman. “I’ll try to keep the
robots
at bay a while longer.”

“Thanks.” Kate glanced at the death artist’s collage–her face pasted over the martyred Saint Sebastian. She took a breath. “The opening events of the Venice Biennale are tomorrow. He’ll have to strike this weekend–and we have to be ready for him.”

Not her usual neat job of packing–tissue paper layered between blouses, each cosmetic and toiletry in its own plastic bag. Instead, Kate had her one evening outfit in a garment bag and everything else jumbled into a small carry-on.

“I would have been going with you if you hadn’t canceled the trip,” said Richard. “Now I’m totally overbooked with meetings and depositions.”

“I’m sorry,” said Kate. “I didn’t think I could possibly go, but then, well, I decided I really needed the break.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re going.” Richard sat on the edge of their bed, clipping his nails.

“Richard, please. I’ll be stepping on fingernail shards for days.”

“No, you won’t.” He stopped clipping, looked up. “You’ll be in Venice. And Lucille vacuums every day.”

He was right. Who cared where Richard cut his nails? She was tense, that’s all. And he’d made an effort, left work early to see her off.

“Willie will appreciate it. You being there, representing us both.” He went back to his nails.
Clip. Clip.

“I hope so,” said Kate. She grabbed her smallest bottle of Bal à Versailles, shoved it into her bag. The absurdity of it struck her.
Perfume? For a murderer
?

“A few days away will do you good.”