The Death Artist (36 page)

Kate tried to retrace the killer’s steps. She moved from the bathroom into the bedroom.

It had been torn apart by the cops: the naked mattress sad, sagging slightly in the center; closet open, business suits and blazers shoved around, a pair of charcoal pants on the floor rumpled over several pairs of shoes–wing tips, tasseled loafers, Top-Siders; dresser drawers like small open tombs, their contents–perfectly laundered white and blue shirts with
WMP
monogrammed on the pockets, along with nine or ten pairs of black socks and at least a dozen starched white boxer shorts–scattered on the floor.

Nothing like dying to have your life laid bare, your personal artifacts treated with contempt, thought Kate. She checked the bedside tables, pulled open drawers. Nothing of value left, only a pack of unused lubricated Trojans, a half-eaten pack of Spearmint Life Savers, nail clippers.

Kate moved from the bedroom back to the bath, once again into the library. But it was no use.

The living room was the only room that had not been ransacked by the cops. Kate stopped a moment to admire a painting. She might as well; there was nothing more to do. A Monet landscape, his garden at Giverny. But the dark room swallowed most of the details. Kate threw back the heavy drapes for a better look. Light poured into the room.

She lingered a minute, her eyes playing over Monet’s impasto paint and lush color; and when she turned to go, she noticed, too, how the light picked out the fleur-de-lis flocking in the wallpaper, the grain in the dark wood wainscoting, the detail in the Oriental rugs, and something else peeking from the edge of the rug, almost but not quite hidden by the leg of a small end table–a tiny object, glittering in the shaft of light.

A cuff link.

Kate gripped it between her thumb and forefinger: a perfect oval of eighteen-karat gold outlined in black onyx, elegant without being fussy. She stiffened. It
must
be one of Pruitt’s. And why not? It was a common enough style. Still, Kate held her breath as she rotated the cuff link and raised it for closer inspection.

The inscription was as clear as the day she’d had it engraved: “To R. Love K.”

Oh my God.
The tall, well-dressed stranger.

Richard’s cuff link at the scene of Bill Pruitt’s murder.

How was it possible?

Kate stared out the cab’s windows at office buildings, people, signs, lights–everything a blur.

In the outer office, Richard’s secretary, Anne-Marie, smiled, put her hand out, but Kate sprinted past her.

“Kate!” Richard’s blue eyes widened.

Kate stopped short, half in, half out of his office.

Richard made awkward introductions. “Mr. Krauser. My wife.”

“Oh.” Kate inhaled, sharply. “Sorry, I–”

“That’s all right.” The man was either very gracious or scared by the look on Kate’s face. “Your husband and I were just finished.”

Richard was eyeing Kate suspiciously as he closed the door behind his client. “Do you know who that was, Kate? The German investment banker, who–”

Kate rolled the cuff link onto his desk.

“Oh.” The anger drained out of Richard’s voice. “I’ve been looking for this.”

“I’ll bet you have.” Kate stood still, holding her breath.

“Where did you find it?”

“At Bill Pruitt’s apartment.”

For a moment neither one of them spoke. Then Kate exploded: “Jesus Christ, Richard! What does this mean? Explain it to me.
Please.
”

Richard paced to the end of his office, adjusted a framed Warhol
Marilyn,
which had been perfectly straight in the first place. He turned, regarded her gravely. “Pruitt was embezzling money from Let There Be a Future. I’d found some discrepancies in the financials Pruitt kept for the foundation. I went to see him that night, and–” Richard spoke calmly, though he continued to adjust frames, pick imaginary lint from his pin-striped jacket, shuffle papers on his desk, pace. “Well, it’s not the way it looks, damn it. I simply went there to have him explain it to me. The bastard laughed in my face. He was drunk. I just sort of lost it. I punched him.” Richard’s lanky frame collapsed onto the leather love seat below a series of David Hockney prints–all swimming pools and palm trees and California-blue sky. He looked up at Kate. “You don’t think I killed him, do you?”

Kate stood looking down at Richard. “I don’t know what I think.” She felt like collapsing, too.

“Oh, come on, Kate. It’s
me.
Richard. Your husband.”

Yes. The husband who had lied to her. Deceived her. Kate’s hazel eyes flashed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to, but . . .”

“But
what
?” Kate shook her head back and forth, trying to make sense of it, but images were flashing in her mind: Richard punching Bill Pruitt, that cuff link on the floor, the bruise on Pruitt’s chin. Kate pressed her fingertips to her forehead as though trying to turn off the switch to this awful movie. “After ten years of marriage, how could you
not
tell me?”

“I had every intention of telling you, but Elena had just been murdered, and it didn’t seem important.” Richard rubbed at his temples. “I figured I’d just tell you later.”

“Later?”
Kate laced her fingers together, her knuckles turning white, but she was listening. She would hear this. “So what happened later?”

“Later, Pruitt was dead. I still intended to tell you. But Arlen James didn’t want anyone to know about Pruitt’s embezzling from Let There Be a Future. Arlen and I intended to confront Pruitt together the next day. But when Bill was found dead, Arlen was in a panic, worried about the foundation’s reputation. He didn’t want the embezzlement story made public. It was bad enough the foundation was dealing with Elena’s death, then Bill’s. But who’s going to support a charity that can’t hold on to its money?”

True. Still, Kate could not help all of the doubt that had been stirred up in her. She felt shaky, confused.

“I was freaked. I mean, Bill was dead, and I’d been there, in his apartment, and we fought–”

Richard suddenly looked like a little boy, and a lost one. Kate had the urge to hold him, hug him toward her, pat his curls, tell him it was all right. But at the same time everything he’d ever said to her was suddenly suspect, tainted. Was he really working late all those nights? What about the trips out of town? And if he really hit Pruitt, why not take it a step further–that he killed the man? Though she fought it, the image of Pruitt in the bath, Richard holding the man under, took shape in her mind. And what about the way Richard had always looked at Elena–was it more than paternal?
Jesus.
She did not want to think these thoughts, but just couldn’t stop them.

“I thought we were a team,” she said.

“We are.”

“Were,” said Kate. “If you’d told me, I might have been able to help.”

“
How,
Kate?” Richard shook his head. “After Bill’s death it just made better sense for you
not
to know–knowing could have put you in a very awkward position–you working the cases, and your husband having had a fight with one of the victims. How would that look? It just got too late.” He opened his hands, palms up. “I figured, hell, let it go. Tell her when it’s all over.” Richard lifted a glass paperweight off his desk, rolled it from one hand to the other. “Bill Pruitt was perfectly fine when I left him. Come on, Kate. You know me. I could never kill anyone.”

“I didn’t think you could punch anyone either,” said Kate. She eased herself onto Richard’s leather couch. “Suppose Bill’s embezzling was the reason he was killed?”

“Impossible.” He rolled the paperweight back and forth, back and forth. “Arlen and I were the only ones who knew about it.”

“Did you and Arlen actually think I would go blabbing that information around indiscriminately?” Kate took a deep breath. “You should know me better than that, Richard.”

“If you knew it, you might not have had a choice but to divulge it–and there was no need–it obviously had nothing to do with Bill’s murder–or with the death artist.” Richard’s eyes widened. “God. Do you realize I was there, at Pruitt’s, just before that maniac killed him?”

“Yes, I certainly do realize that.” A chill rippled the muscles of her back. “Jesus, they have your prints, Richard.”

“So what? My prints aren’t on record. I’m not a felon.” He looked toward the large picture window framing an impressive piece of the Hudson River, a couple of brand-new buildings, a few deserted piers dotting the river’s edge.

“God, Richard. If this comes out . . .” Kate flattened her fingers over her eyes. She wanted it all to go away–Elena’s death, Richard at Pruitt’s apartment, this conversation. Spots floated in the darkness behind her lids.

“Why would it come out?” Richard stopped playing with the paperweight, dropped it onto his desk with a thud. “You’re the only one who knows.”

“For now.” Kate opened her eyes. It took a moment for Richard’s face to come into focus.

“Well, you’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” He pushed away from his desk and stood up.

“Of course not.” Kate twisted her wedding band around her finger, pictured the two of them dancing at a party, the soft touch of Richard’s hand at the base of her spine, her cheek against his, the smell of his aftershave. Was that only a few weeks ago?

Richard took hold of her hand.

The action calmed her a bit, helped her concentrate. “Richard, when you were there, at Bill Pruitt’s, did you notice a small altarpiece, a Madonna and Child?”

“No. Why?”

“Because Bill Pruitt had one that’s missing, remember?”

Richard dropped her hand. “You’re not accusing me of stealing it, are you?”

Kate stiffened. “I only asked if you
saw
it. Don’t go turning this around–making
me
the bad guy.”

“No. I didn’t see one. If I had, I might have taken it–as payment for his embezzling.” He reached out again, touched her arm. “I’m sorry. Really I am. Forgive me?”

Kate wanted to forgive him, to believe him, to have all of this behind them, but those images and feelings continued to nag at her. “I’m not sure.”

“Oh, come on, Kate.” His fingers skittered lightly over her flesh, producing goose bumps.

She laid her hand over his. “I’m trying.”

Richard attempted a kiss, but Kate pushed him away.

“I’m sorry, but it’s going to take me more than a minute to get over this.”

“I was trying to protect the foundation, Kate. I’d have thought you’d agree with that.”

“I might have.” Kate couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice. “If you’d given me the chance.”

“I made a mistake, Kate. I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

“Yes, you should have.” Kate swallowed, fought the tears that had gathered behind her eyes.

“How about a hug?”

Kate let her body sag against his. “Please, Richard. Don’t ever keep anything from me. I don’t care how bad it is.”

Richard wrapped his arms around her. “Okay, I admit it. Bookies are threatening my life, I fucked Elizabeth Hurley, and I shot the sheriff.”

“Very funny,” said Kate.

“Hey, what happened to your sense of humor?”

Kate looked into his eyes. “It sort of disappeared when I found your cuff link at a murder scene.”

Kate sat on the edge of her all-white bed. She didn’t have the nerve to go back to the station. What if Slattery or Brown asked her if she’d found anything at Pruitt’s?
Oh, just my husband’s cuff link, that’s all.

It was as if everything was collapsing at the same time. Her husband lying to her, the foundation’s finances a wreck, the case at a standstill, Willie barely talking to her. It felt as if it was all unraveling; that
she
was unraveling. Kate could practically see pieces of herself being torn off, disappearing.

She flopped back onto her bed, closed her eyes, saw that shaft of light, Richard’s cuff link edging out from the corner of the rug. Could he be lying to her? What was it he’d said just the other day? That you never really know anyone, that everyone had secrets.
Does he
? Damn it, she didn’t want to think like that. Richard was no murderer. Nor was she one of those naive wives who never suspect a thing while their husbands are out raping cheerleaders.

The phone rang, but Kate let the machine get it. It was her friend Blair going on about the foundation benefit, then something about Kate’s dwindling social status.

Oh, great.
Just one more loss Kate could add to her list.

The young boy won’t be found for weeks. The bricks tied to his feet before he was dropped into the river make that pretty much a certainty.

But it feels . . . incomplete. Oh, sure, it was nice while it lasted. But now what? How to make something of it?

Try.

He shuts his eyes, imagines the dead teen floating under-water. For color, he adds a kaleidoscopic school of fish swimming around the body. Then some Hudson River detritus–an old tire, a bent metal chair covered with soft green moss, a headless baby doll–found objects to turn it into a surreal still life. That’s it! One of those big aquarium pieces like that British artist Damien Hirst makes. Oh, wouldn’t Mr. Hirst be jealous to have a real body to play with.

Still, he must admit it did not feel as good without his audience. He needs to get close again.

He paces in the room. Maybe it’s too soon. But there’s no stopping it now.

He finds the electronic device he’s bought on-line. It feels tight in his hands, the metal cold. He’s tested and retested it, and it works, makes his voice hollow, unidentifiable. He speaks into it: “Testing, testing, testing.” The word echoes into the room, again and again, his voice strange, completely altered.

“Hello,” he says. “Good evening. Are you surprised to hear from me?” His voice so alien, for a moment he’s thrown–it’s one too many voices, one too many psyches to deal with. But he speaks again, concentrates on the fact that it is
his
voice distorted through the metal device. “It’s me,” he says, listening to the echo:
Me me me me me me . . .