Stroke of Death

by Dale Mayer

  She nodded. “Yes. So, it’s almost 20 percent higher. Eighteen point five percent or something like that.”

  “Crap,” Anita said.

  “But then”—Cayce shrugged—“it is what it is. What am I supposed to do, not use the right colors?”

  “Right. Not much to be done about it anyway. So just do what you do,” she said.

  The two women sat going over each of the invoices. They were swinging their feet as they concentrated.

  “Did Frankie come by here at all today?” Anita asked her boss.

  She was working on the invoices, so wasn’t thinking about it. When she looked up, she said, “No, I just talked to him on the phone.” She caught the same disappointed look on her friend’s expression. “Remember. You have to let it go.”

  “I don’t want to,” Anita said, getting to her feet. She stormed around the small office space. “I just can’t stop thinking about him.”

  “He’s moved on,” she said.

  “I know that,” she said, “and it’s just devastating that he has.”

  “But he has to. It didn’t work out between you and he’s trying to get his life back again.”

  “That damned accident messed him up,” she said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Cayce said patiently. She finally finished signing everything, handed Anita the folder, and said, “Thanks for bringing it over.”

  Anita hopped to her feet again, having just sat back down. “What about lunch? Are you going to eat lunch?”

  “I had a big breakfast,” she said, “so I don’t know. Maybe just a salad.”

  Anita frowned. “Are you looking after yourself?”

  “I am,” she said.

  “Hmm. I wonder.” She seemed to will herself to turn and to walk away.

  When she finally got Anita to leave, Cayce headed back to her home office to do more work. The whole apartment seemed surprisingly empty.

  Her phone rang, and she reached for it, realizing how many times she’d been expecting Richard to call. This time it was him. She smiled at the phone and said, “Hello?”

  “Now that sounds much better. A little more life, girl, than I’ve heard in the last few days.”

  “Girl?” she said with asperity.

  “Right. I hate to insult you. Woman, then.”

  “Why did you call?”

  “And just as bright as ever,” he said with a laugh.

  “Absolutely. Any progress?”

  “No, nothing. Liana had just moved in with a special partner. I wonder if you had any insight as to who that might be.”

  “No. I haven’t had anything to do with her in eight months.”

  “We’re working on the forensics. They were all drugged first,” he said. “Liana’s body is the anomaly, having been frozen for several months.”

  “Now we’re assuming that she was the first victim?”

  “I really like that theory,” he said. “We’re working on the time line right now. The problem is, that’s a lot of months between the first and second victims, and then no time at all between the second and third victims.”

  “On the police shows,” she said quietly, “they would say he was escalating.”

  “And that’s quite possible. We just don’t know that for sure.” He cleared his voice. “How are you feeling now?”

  “Fine,” she said. “I’m not sure why or how, but I slept beautifully, woke up well, and it’s been a good day.”

  “Good.” There was such a note of satisfaction in his voice that she became immediately suspicious. “Are you claiming that as a success for anything that you did?”

  “No clue,” he said. “Don’t know what I could have done, except maybe that I stayed with you.” As he checked his watch, he groaned. “I’ll be back when the day is done,” he said, “but that could be late, depending on work.”

  “I understand,” she said. “However, it’d be nice if we could have a nice steak dinner together when this nightmare is over.” Seemed now that she would be alone while eating the steak and scalloped potatoes sitting in her fridge, ready to be cooked.

  “I’m not sure,” he said in a teasing note. “Does that make it an actual date?”

  “I’m not sure it does,” she said, laughing, “but I think we’re past that point.”

  “We’re never past the point of having a date,” he said. “And I don’t want to skip any steps in our relationship.”

  “Yeah, it’s probably also not very wise of you to get involved with somebody until this case is over with.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. You can bet I’ve been warned about that,” he said.

  “Oh? I’m so sorry,” she said. “That sounds terrible.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It is what it is. Anyway, I’ll be there soon.” And he hung up.

  She smiled and put her phone down.

  As soon as she did, she heard a knock on her door. As she walked over, she said out loud, “Being at home is almost as busy as being at work.” She checked her peephole and opened her door.

  The guard stood there with a box in his hand.

  She looked at it and recoiled. “You need to tell Richard about that,” she said, “because absolutely nothing in me wants to open that box.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “The last one had body parts in it.” She immediately backed away and closed the door, locking it. She ran over to her desk, picked up the phone, and called the detective, but only got his voicemail. “Shit, shit, shit,” she said. She curled up in a ball on the couch and kept trying Richard’s phone over and over again.

  Finally, after about the fifth time, he answered. “What’s the matter?”

  “Another package,” she said.

  He swore. “Be there soon.”

  “The guard has it,” she said.

  “It should never have gone upstairs,” he said. “Dammit.”

  “Don’t talk to me about it,” she said. “I just slammed the door in his face.”

  “Good enough,” he said. “Stay calm. I’ll be there soon.”

  “Yeah, will do,” she said.

  But she wasn’t calm at all. Frustrated, uneasy, and hating that this evil was once again infiltrating into her world, she hopped up, poured herself a glass of wine, and turned on the fireplace, even though it was only two o’clock in the afternoon. She could feel everything inside herself tense into this tight little ball, until finally she heard voices outside her door.

  She huddled behind the couch, until she heard Richard’s voice. Suddenly her front door opened, and he stepped inside. She popped her head up over the couch, saw him, put the glass of wine down on the coffee table, and raced into his arms, throwing herself against him, her arms wrapping tight around him.

  He held her close and whispered, “It’ll be okay. Shh, it’ll be okay.”

  “No,” she said. “It’ll never be okay at this rate.”

  “I have to take this to the station, okay?”

  She took a deep breath. “That’s fine,” she said. “Go. Take that nasty thing with you.”

  “It does look like the other one,” he admitted, “and we’ll do more testing this time.”

  “It was tested last time, right?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I’m just hoping that maybe this time there will be a fingerprint.”

  She nodded. “Just take it.” She took several deep breaths. “I’ll be fine. Just go.”

  “You’re obviously not fine,” he said, frowning at her.

  “I’ll be much better when you get that thing away from me.”

  He nodded, stepped out the door, turned, and said, “Lock the door behind me.”

  She immediately threw the bolt and then collapsed back down on the couch in tears.

  *

  “How did you get this?” Richard asked the guard.

  “The front desk called me,” the guard said, “and then they sent it up.”

  “This is the second such delivery. I should have briefed
you on that, but I don’t think I had a chance to,” he said, as he studied the box. “I’ll be back in a little bit.” He headed straight to the station, texting Andy in the meantime. Andy met him at the front, and they took the package to forensics.

  Very carefully, they clipped the twine that wrapped it up and then opened up the paper wrapped around it. Each piece was sprayed and checked for prints. Nothing was found. Every corner and crease was checked, and finally they turned their attention to the box itself. Nothing was found on the outside, but they kept on working.

  Finally the forensic guy said, “It’s clear too.” He opened the box carefully. The smell immediately wafted toward them. Only this time it smelled of formaldehyde. “He’s changing his preserving methods,” the forensic tech said. “This time it isn’t Ivory Snow. That’s definitely a preservative, like formaldehyde.”

  “That’s used in all kinds of things, isn’t it?” Richard asked.

  “Yes,” he said, “it is.”

  “So it’s not that unusual to have.”

  “Nope.”

  “I gather the other method didn’t work very well.”

  “Or this is a particularly interesting piece,” he said, as he studied it.

  “What is it?”

  “Another chunk of skin and fat. But this time the artist’s signature is on it.”

  Richard stared at it and realized for the first time that she signed each of her pieces, even the body art. That fascinated him too. He took a photo of it, shook his head, and said, “That’s not what she’ll want.”

  “How did it arrive at the building?” Andy asked.

  “A courier,” he said. “He’d been slipped twenty bucks to deliver it.”

  “Right. Of course. We need to track him down.”

  “I’m already working on it,” Richard said, in a hard voice. Just then his phone rang; it was the doorman from her building.

  “The courier is here.”

  “Hold him there,” Richard said. “I’ll be there in five.” He turned and said to Andy, “We’ve got the courier.” And with that, he bolted, Andy close on his heels.

  *

  He didn’t know why he felt compelled to share his work with her. Maybe because she’d been so generous sharing hers with everybody else. He didn’t know if she would appreciate what he’d done.

  But it was something to see her signature and to see her work as he developed his own skills, which were slow to come, but he would give himself time. He could recreate her masterpieces too. To think that she could take a van Gogh and put it on the body model was absolutely unbelievable.

  It took body-painting to a whole new level. One that he appreciated and yet, at the same time, admired and resented. There, he’d said it. He resented her because she could do it so easily, so flawlessly, so effortlessly. He’d stood there watching her, as she stroked a great big six-inch-wide paintbrush. She saved the fine details for the end, but, even then, she managed to do it with big four-inch-wide brushes. He’d been amazed at the contrast because then, when she worked on the body model, she did it with tiny brushes. It was a skill he knew he would take years to refine. But he was working on it.

  He kept bolstering himself up with that. He was working on it. He settled back and smiled at his latest attempt. It was close, surely it was close. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and lifted it in the air, and said, “Salud.” It made him feel like he wasn’t so alone when he shared his skills with her too. And he took a sip of his whiskey.

  *

  Naomi woke up, and the inside of her mouth was thick, plugged with something. Her jaw throbbed, as if she’d been slammed with a fist. She twisted, shifting her body, but it wouldn’t move. She laid back, wondering what the hell had just gone on. She opened her eyes, and darkness was all around her. In the far corner was a small task light, and she could see somebody working away over there. She spat out whatever was in her mouth and said, “What’s going on? Where am I?”

  “You’re my visitor,” he said. “My guest. Just lie there quietly. I’ll get to you eventually.”

  “Quietly?” She pulled at her hands and realized that she couldn’t get free. She was tied up. Not only was she tied up, but she was tied up, nude, and her arms and legs were spread wide on a weird frame.

  And some of her body had been painted while she had been unconscious.

  Chapter 20

  Cayce opened her apartment door and asked the guard, “Do you know if they located the courier?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “They just told me that they have him downstairs.”

  “Perfect,” she said. “I want to see him.”

  “Oh no, you don’t,” he said, immediately putting an arm across the front door. “You’re not going outside.”

  “Seriously? Am I a prisoner?”

  “No, you’re not a prisoner,” he said, “but my job is to keep you safe and to keep you here.”

  “Says you,” she said. “Why don’t you come down with me then?”

  He frowned at her.

  “Well, I’m going,” she said. “So you’ll either come along, or you won’t.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  She stopped, nodded, and said, “Yes, I’m one of those women. I’m difficult and obnoxious, and I like to get my own way.”

  He laughed. “But you stay at my side.”

  She nodded. “Fine.”

  They took the elevator down. In the front lobby, she saw the same courier she’d seen many times before. “Hey, Lenny. How are you doing?”

  He looked at her. “I don’t know what’s got everybody rattled,” he said, “but, when it came to that last parcel I gave you—”

  “Don’t worry. It’s part of a police investigation,” she said comfortably. “How is Trixie?”

  “She’s doing good,” he said. “So is the baby.” He beamed with paternal pride.

  “Of course.” She smiled. “So, who gave you that parcel?”

  “A guy at the pizza shop. He gave me twenty bucks to deliver it, and I was coming this way anyway. It’s an easy twenty bucks.”

  “Do you remember who it was?”

  “The guy at the counter,” he said, “but it wasn’t from him. It was given to him by somebody who was getting it to you because everybody knows you’re around here, and he was happy to help out.”

  “Great,” she said, “thank you.”

  Just then the front entrance doors opened, and Richard and Andy came flying through. Richard stopped when he saw her and gave her a good frown.

  She in turn gave him a big smile. “I came down to chat with Lenny,” she said. “He delivers all kinds of stuff for me.”

  “She’s a good client,” he said.

  “Well, I need details,” Richard said. “Who gave it to you and why?”

  Lenny went through the same conversation he’d already gone over with Cayce, and, in a few moments, the two detectives were running out the door to talk to the pizza man.

  Lenny turned to look at her, shrugged, and said, “Man, you command all kinds of attention these days.” With that, he gave her a high five and took off.

  The guard looked at her and asked, “Can we go back upstairs now?”

  “I guess,” she said, “but I’d much rather stay and see the world.”

  “Five minutes,” he said, “but that’s it.”

  She laughed. “Do you always follow the rules?”

  “Nope,” he said, “but you’re in the wide open, and I don’t like it.”

  She looked at him, startled, and then looked at all the windows. “You mean that somebody could see me through the windows?”

  “You can bet somebody is watching you right now,” he said.

  She winced. “That is not what I want to think about.”

  “Maybe not,” he said. “So, do us both a favor. Let’s go back up.”

  She waved at the doorman and the desk clerk on the main floor. “Have a good afternoon, you two.”

  They lifted a hand and smiled at
her.

  And she headed upstairs, determined to accomplish something, despite the unsettling drama her life had become. Once there, she locked herself in. She brought out her designs for upcoming installations and started working. She needed to meet Frankie’s model girlfriend after having to reschedule earlier but she wanted to get some work done first.

  As she worked on one design, she remembered another. From long, long ago. She got up, walked over to the safe that held her old designs and pulled one out. As soon as she saw it, she took a photo and sent it to Richard. He called her just moments later.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s a design I did a long time ago,” she said, still confused as she tried to work this out in her mind. “Like Elena as art, this was a similar idea I had way back when to body-paint models with my own paintings, not the masters. What struck me is how the cutout border of this design compared to the cuts that were done to Elena. From that autopsy picture of her torso that I saw. Which is burned into my brain. Except I can’t confirm these cuts truly match without seeing her body in person, which I cannot stomach.”

  “Well, I can,” he said, “and I concur. That is exactly what happened to Elena’s body. Who would have seen those earlier designs of yours?”

  “I’m not sure anyone has,” she said. “They’re in my safe here. I’ve had them for years.”

  “Did you ever paint them?”

  “Not this one,” she said, “it was a little too dark for the mood I was going for. But when I was depressed and tired and lonely, I used to draw these darker things.”

  “So, when your stepfather abused your mother and when that guy, your fiancé, hurt you?” he said.

  “The dark artwork was part of my recovery,” she said instantly. “I painted dark, designed dark, in order to purge all that turmoil inside.” Her smiled slipped. “It was very therapeutic.”

  “What if they are models for the murderer?”

  “Well, that would be pretty upsetting,” she said. She sat heavily in her chair, dropping her head into her hands. “Please tell me that it’s not.”

  “Then you tell me who would have seen these designs because they’ll be my number one suspects.”

  “Nobody,” she said instantly. “They couldn’t.”