The Death Artist (12 page)

When he came back to the conscious world, Ethan Stein wished he had not. He couldn’t move his arms or legs, every breath was an effort, his thoughts were muddled, his head ached as though his skull had been shrunk too tight for his brain.

What happened
? All he remembered was answering the door.

Oh, right.
The hand across his face, the chemical smell, the slightest struggle before the room went black.

Ethan blinked. The man’s shoes passed in front of his eyes. He was lying on the floor, his cheek against cheap, paint-splattered linoleum, dust in his nose. The man was whistling.

For a second, the irony sloshed through Ethan’s drugged mind–sure, he likes it rough when it’s play, but this . . .

The panic rose so quickly, the smell of ether, or something like it, still so strong in his nostrils, that Ethan thought he would surely vomit.
Were those gagging noises coming from him
?

“Calm down.”

A voice from above.

Ethan strained to see, but could not move his head.

The man bent down, his face an inch from Ethan’s face, features a blur. “This is going to take a while. Relax.”

Now the man was on a chair. Ethan could hear him unscrewing floodlights, half the room going dark.

“Patience,” the man said.

Ethan’s heart pulsated in his ears, sounding like a tennis match in the rain, the ball soggy, leaden.
Plop. Squish. Plop. Squish.
And were those tears on his cheeks? He’d never felt so helpless, so utterly terrified. He felt cold and, looking down at his chest, realized he was naked. His panic rose. There were noises emanating from somewhere deep in his throat, but he couldn’t form words. His lips and tongue were thick, immovable.

Now the man was beside him, unfolding a paper, mumbling to himself. Ethan strained to turn his head. Impossible.

The man’s hands came into view, the straight razor glinting.

Noooo
! But Ethan couldn’t scream. The words dribbled out of him, pathetic, just bubbles of spit on his lips.

“I’ll start with the leg,” the man said, grabbing Ethan by his ankles, hoisting his legs up, arranging it so that Ethan’s naked heel was against the back wall wedged between two of his minimal white paintings.

Ethan was hanging upside down now, staring up at the man, but couldn’t make him out. The lights’ glare had turned the man into a dark silhouette. All he could see was the way the man referred to the paper in his hand just before he started slashing Ethan’s calf with the straight razor.

It wasn’t the pain that made Ethan faint. He only felt the slightest tug, a sort of pinch. No, it was seeing that the man was plying the razor under the skin, chopping away stubborn muscles and tendons, lifting flesh off bone as if he were skinning a chicken.

Ethan Stein. Kate hadn’t heard much about him in the past few years. One of those artists who seemed to fall through the art world cracks after their style and moment ceased to be fashionable. Richard had bought a painting about five or six years ago. It used to hang in the Rothsteins’ living room, was later demoted to a guest room–a small, minimal piece, layers of white and off-white paint built up with palette knife and brush, the faintest grid of gray. Nice. Not terribly exciting. Now it made Kate sad that they had never kept up with the artist, or that they moved his painting, or . . . she wasn’t sure. A life cut short was always tragic. But ritualistic overtones? Blood under the door?
Jesus.

Her head ached. Those ninety-proof martinis with Winnie Pruitt, topped off by a couple of glasses of cabernet with Richard’s clients last night. Kate could barely make conversation. Not like her. And Richard noted it. More than once. It was not as if she didn’t want to be sociable, but her mind was obsessed with that collage, and with the idea that Bill Pruitt could have been dealing in stolen art.

She slid the Metro Section aside, was about to look at the Dining In section when the photo slipped onto the counter.

A Polaroid, almost totally white, the faintest suggestion of an image, something gray and out of focus in the corner.

What’s this
? She studied it a moment. Could it possibly have gotten stuck, accidentally, inside her newspaper? A week ago she might have thought so. Not now.

Kate washed down two Excedrin, quickly got the cordless under her chin. A call to Richard.

“Sorry, Mrs. R. He’s in a meeting.” Richard’s true-blue secretary.

“Just tell him I called, Anne-Marie.”

“Sure thing. And thanks for the fudge. It was yummy.”

“Hey, you deserve it–and don’t you share one bit,” said Kate, who intended to keep that woman working in Richard’s office well past retirement age. She also intended to maintain Anne-Marie’s plus-size figure. Handmade truffles for Valentine’s Day. Candy canes and pound cake at Christmas. Even a five-pound chocolate turkey at Thanks-giving. “Tell him to call me, okay? Thanks.”

But enough small talk. Her hands were shaking.

Kate lifted the Polaroid for a closer look, but there was nothing to see. It was mostly white with a hint of gray, a complete blur. She put it down, reached for her coffee, and stopped. The Polaroid, resting just beneath the banner of Ethan Stein’s murder, was suddenly a juxtaposition so compelling, she was on her feet.

Jesus, was this from him
? How had he gotten to her newspaper? The thought was almost too chilling to consider.

In the guest room, Kate held the Polaroid beside Ethan Stein’s minimal painting. She couldn’t be sure, but yes, a definite similarity–the whiteness, the hint of gray.

In her office, she rubbed sleep from her eyes, trained the magnifying glass on the photo.
Brush strokes.
It
was
a painting.

The graduation photo. That was first.

Then the Madonna and Child collage.

Now this.

True, there was no way actually to connect the Polaroid to Ethan Stein, but the similarity and coincidence–after two other missives–had her hands shaking.

Why were these things being sent to her? Was there a connection, or was her mind, so distressed by Elena’s death, creating mysteries where there were none?

No. Kate was sure it was something. It was the kind of feeling the young Detective McKinnon used to get.

Time to see Tapell, but first some validation.

Kate threw on a pair of slacks, a silk blouse, ran a brush through her hair, and didn’t bother with makeup.

Kate slid into the coffee-shop booth. “Thanks for meeting me, Liz.”

“That’s okay. Anything to get away from the twelve-year-old computer instructor who’s been shouting at me for days like I’m some kind of idiot.” Liz peered at her friend over the rim of her coffee cup. “So what’s up, Kate? You didn’t ask me to scoot out of FBI headquarters just to share a cup of joe and tell me how great I am.”

“Well, I might have, but . . .” She pushed her hair behind her ears, got serious. “Remember the graduation photo–me and Elena?”

“Attached to your nicotine patch?”

“Exactly. Well, there’ve been others.” Kate laid them on the table: a copy of the Madonna and Child collage, the Polaroid, which she thought was somehow related to Ethan Stein’s paintings and possibly his murder. “These were sent to me. I think
meant
for me, Liz.” Kate tried to control the slight tremor in her fingertips.

“What do you mean?” asked Liz.

“Well, the graduation photo is clearly Elena, and . . . she’s dead. The collage is an altarpiece that may have belonged to Bill Pruitt, also dead. And the Polaroid looks suspiciously like an Ethan Stein painting, and he . . .” Kate took a breath.

“The artist who was killed. I just read about that.” Liz looked from one image to the other, concern spreading across her face.

“It’s all starting to scare the shit out of me.” Kate massaged the tight muscles at the base of her skull.

“Well, it should scare you. I mean, if someone’s trying to contact you . . .” Liz’s eyes narrowed. “This is serious, Kate. You’ve got to tell someone about it–and I mean
now
.”

“I’m going to see Clare Tapell.” Kate stopped rubbing her neck, started playing with the fine gold chain at her throat.

“Chief of police. Good idea.”

“But what if I’m totally overreacting–that it’s just some crank?” Kate released the chain, started tapping her finger-nails along the table’s edge.

“Hey, do me a favor.” Liz pointed a finger at Kate. “Just go. It could be a crank, but it could also be someone who wants to do you damage.”

“Me?” Kate forced a laugh, but her fingers did not stop tapping. “I’m way too tough for anyone to mess with.”

“Kate.” Liz laid a hand over Kate’s nervously tapping fingers. Her blue eyes had no humor in them at all. “I’ve been dealing with this kind of stuff for the past ten years. If there’s a psycho out there, and he’s targeted you–” She shook her head. “These guys are tenacious little bastards, real hunters–”

“Hunters?” Kate tried hard to maintain her cool, but there was a riot brewing in her gut.

“Most killers–the serial variety–come to hunting humans gradually, but hunt they do.” Liz looked up, her blue eyes gone dark. “As young boys they have rather undirected anger, violence against small animals, occasionally other kids. But as their fantasy worlds grow and take shape, they start to focus on what really gets them off. That’s when they start hunting–for
worthy
victims.”

“Oh, I swear, Liz, I’m not worthy.”

“I know you, Kate McKinnon. Trying to act all brave and sassy.” Liz frowned again. “All I’m saying is that these guys look for someone to work out their violent fantasies on–they’re sick fucks who love getting off on the game, and–”

“I can take care of myself.” Kate laced her fingers together to keep them from tapping.

“Designer heels are not made for chasing felons, Ex-Detective McKinnon.” Liz pinched the bridge of her nose. “Sorry, that was below the belt.”

“
Way
below,” said Kate. “I do not like any references to my size twelves–designer or otherwise.”

“Personally, I’d prefer if you stuck to figuring out art.”

“I never said I was giving up art–or the foundation–or anything else, for that matter. But I can’t walk away from this, Liz. I won’t. This all has something to do with me, and maybe even the art world. I don’t know what yet, but
something.
” Kate effected an unconvincing smile, patted her friend’s hand. “Relax. I’ll go see Tapell. Right now.”

The red brick, slightly Mayan cube of a building brought back some memories: a couple of meetings after she had made detective, seminars with that criminal psychologist on the pathology of the runaway. Kate McKinnon, Astoria cop, did not spend all that much time at One Police Plaza, but she knew the place–the surrounding maze of walkways and plazas, the startling views of the Criminal Court buildings, City Hall, all framed through archways, cop cars, and vans ringing the complex like an irregular chrome necklace.

The lobby was something out of a poor man’s Leni Riefenstahl propaganda film: flags, statues, banners, slogans–COURTESY, PROFESSIONALISM, RESPECT–and guards every-where you looked.

Kate signed in, went through the metal detector, twice–her keys and a Zippo lighter setting it off–finally into the elevator, the whole time anxious to keep moving, explain to Tapell what she thought was going on.

Kate spread everything out on Tapell’s desk: the graduation photo of Elena with her painted eyelids, the collage and enlargements made at Mert’s gallery of the Madonna and Child, the Polaroid that she thought looked suspiciously like an Ethan Stein painting.

She tapped the graduation photo. “I got this just before Elena Solana was killed–no, after. I mean, I hadn’t yet realized that Elena was dead when I got it.”

“You got it–
how
?”

“I’m not sure. I think it was planted on me. It was in my bag, my purse.”

Tapell arched an eyebrow.

“The collage was delivered to my apartment. The enlargements are made from it. It’s a religious altarpiece, possibly stolen, and it may have belonged to Bill Pruitt.”

The line between Tapell’s eyebrows deepened. “William Pruitt? Stolen from him?”

“Yes. But he may have stolen it, too. Well, not exactly. I mean, he may have bought it knowing it was stolen.”

“What are you talking about, Kate?”

Okay, slow down.
“Was I a good cop, Clare?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay. Then bear with me a minute.” Kate took a breath. “What I was trying to say is that Pruitt may have had the altarpiece in his possession, and now whoever killed him might have it.” She shook a cigarette out of her bag.

“Smoke-free building,” said Tapell.

Kate crumbled the cigarette into Tapell’s trash can. “The Polaroid I just got, the morning after Ethan Stein was murdered–and it looks suspiciously like one of his paintings.”

“How did you get it–the Polaroid, I mean?”

“It was inside my morning paper.”

“Jesus.” Tapell shook her head. “So what you’re telling me, Kate, is that a killer–or possibly three different killers–are communicating with you?” Tapell’s eyes widened with disbelief.

“No. That wouldn’t make sense.”

“Well, thank God. I was afraid you’d lost it.”

“It would have to be
one
killer.”

Tapell’s mouth opened, then shut, her lips disappearing into a tight line. “Do you have any idea of what you’re implying, Kate? I don’t know every detail of these cases. But I can tell you the MO for each is totally different. So you’re way off base here.”