Authors: Jonathan Santlofer
Tags: #Women detectives, #Women art patrons, #Serial murders, #Mystery & Detective, #Ex-police officers, #Crime, #New York (N.Y.), #General, #Psychological, #Women detectives - New York (State) - New York, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Artists, #Thrillers, #Mystery Fiction, #Fiction
The Death Artist (49 page)
“May I come in?” Kate asked.
Mendoza hesitated, then opened the door. He looked thin, weary, so much older than Kate remembered. “I’ve come to see Mrs. Solana.”
Mendoza nodded, as if they had been expecting her.
Kate followed him down the long narrow corridor of the railroad flat. It smelled of bodily functions and disinfectant. At the end of the hall, Mendoza pushed open the door to the bedroom.
The woman in the bed was Margarita Solana, but she was hardly recognizable. The once beautiful woman was ravaged, her lustrous black hair now a filigreed spiderweb spreading across the pillow. Her cheeks were sunken, with deep grooves at the corners of her mouth. Dark eyes, so much like Elena’s, were hollow.
“The only thing to do for her now is the drugs,” said Mendoza. “So many drugs.”
Kate’s eyes played over the bedside table–enough vials of pills to stock a small pharmacy.
“She is a proud woman,” said Mendoza. “She did not want anyone to know.” He rubbed at a purplish swelling on the back of his hand, closed his eyes a moment, trembled as if a chill had overtaken him. But the room was stifling.
“Luis!” Margarita Solana called out.
Mendoza went to her, stroked her forehead. “Shhh . . .
querida
, shhh . . .” He kissed her trembling lips, whispered, “There is someone here to see you,
querida.
’’
Kate took a step forward.
Mrs. Solana’s eyes focused on her. She managed to raise a bony hand.
Kate grasped it gently. “I’m sorry,” she said.
The woman shook her head slowly, played with a silver crucifix hanging from a thick chain around her neck. “I have asked Jesus many times why all these things have happened,” she said. “But he does not give me an answer.”
“I’ve asked the same question,” said Kate.
“Elena was a good girl.” Mrs. Solana gazed up at Kate. “A good girl.”
“Yes,” said Kate softly. “She was.”
Margarita Solana nodded. “My daughter loved you very much, and . . . I am a jealous woman.” She let go of the crucifix, laid her other hand over Kate’s. “But Jesus has forced me to look into my heart. I want to forgive, and I ask that you will forgive me, too.”
Kate felt tears on her cheeks. “Of course.” She saw it all too clearly now. Elena’s mother and Mendoza, both former drug addicts, now terminally ill; Elena buying them the drugs they so desperately needed.
“We are paying for all those years,” Margarita said, tears staining her cheeks. She looked up at Kate, a wry smile twisting her mouth. “But it is okay now. Only a matter of time. I am ready.” She looked away from Kate, at Mendoza, across the dimly lit room, his thin frame leaning against the door.
“No,” said Kate. “There are all sorts of new drugs. Some of them very effective. They can–”
“I have no money for that,” the woman said, turning away again. “Not anymore. And the shame . . .”
“There is no shame in sickness,” said Kate. “Please. Let me help you.”
The woman shook her head no.
“Please,”
said Kate. “You must let me.”
The recording studio was state of the art, six people flitting around the large room, another two inside a smaller soundproof chamber.
The team Kate had hired to complete the work on Elena’s unfinished CD.
One guy was manning a huge console as if he were an air traffic controller, adjusting levels and levers, pushing buttons, his brow knit, lips compressed. He signaled another guy; this one at a computer, hunched over, glasses so thick his eyes looked like golf balls. “Hey, Danny, loop this into the 103 sequence.”
“Gotcha,” said Danny.
A youngish woman yelled over, “This is the last one for the dat tape.”
The guy at the console said, “Great,” pulled off his head-set, nodded at Kate. “We’re putting several tracks together right now–all of it according to Elena’s notes, which, thank God, are really detailed. Danny, over there, he’s working on this amazing new computer program that allows you to insert any bit of music anywhere, anytime. It’s called Pro-tools. Really cool.”
“What’s a dat tape?” asked Kate.
“The master recording. We’ll pull the CDs and tapes off it when it’s finished.” He replaced his earphones, checked his big board, adjusted a lever, then pulled the earphones off again. “Wanna listen?”
Kate got the speakers to her ears. Elena’s crystalline voice was moving up and down the scales, sliding, swooping, incredibly alive. Behind it, over it, they’d overlaid Elena speaking, reciting words, almost telling a story, but totally abstract–the two forms melding into the odd kind of visual music Elena had become known for in the performance world. All that was missing was the young woman herself. Kate closed her eyes, pictured Elena on a pure-white stage.
“That’s the last piece in the CD,” the technician said. “How’s it sound to you?”
Kate was listening to Elena, but could read the guy’s lips. “Beautiful,” she said. “Really beautiful.”
He smiled, gave the other techies a high sign.
Elena’s words and music were playing somewhere far inside Kate’s head. “Does it have a name?” she asked.
The technician motioned to the guy at the computer. “Danny, this last piece, does it have a name?”
Kate lifted one of the earphones away from her head, waited, still listening to Elena’s amazing music being piped into her other ear.
Danny looked down at a sheet of Elena’s notes. “Yes,” he said. “It’s called ‘Kate’s Song.’ ”
This first novel was aided and abetted by the following people:
My daughter, Doria, a reader, a writer, and a beautiful listener.
My sister, Roberta, who was my first editor.
My mother, Edith, who taught me, among other things, the art of embellishing a story.
My sister-in-law, Kathy Rolland, for her generosity of spirit.
Jane O’Keefe for inspiration and true-blue friendship.
Jan Heller Levi, who taught me too many things about writing to list.
Janice Deaner for helping to make the book a reality.
Thanks to the following friends who not only helped but listened to me whine, and have for years: Susan Crile, Ward Mintz and Floyd Lattin, Marcia Tucker, Graham Leader, Jane Kent and David Storey, Judd Tully, Lynn Freed, Elaina Richardson, Jon Giswold, Jane and Jack Rivkin, Caren and Dave Cross, Richard Shebairo, Jim Kempner, Valerie McKenzie, Elizabeth Frank, and Reiner Leist and the rest of my tenth-floor studio buddies, David, Lisa, Sally, and Regina . . .
More thanks to:
Suzanne Gluck, a great agent.
Trish Grader for her excellent and compassionate editing, and Sarah Durand, as well.
Richard Abate for his tough guidance.
To the Corporation of Yaddo, which has nurtured my painting, given birth to my writing, and saved my sanity (more than once).
And to my wife, Joy, for everything else.
JONATHAN SANTLOFER
is an internationally recognized artist with more than one hundred exhibitions in the United States and abroad. His work, which is displayed in many public, private, and corporate collections, has been written about in the
New York Times, Art in America
, and
Artforum
. His many awards include two National Endowment for the Arts painting grants, and he is a member of Yaddo, one of the oldest arts communities in the country. He lives in New York City and is working on his next novel of suspense.