The Art of Violence

by S. J. Rozan

  “Or that they’d both be equally excited about doing it.”

  “You’re moving from disillusioned to cynical awfully fast.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ll try to remember you the way you were. Anyway, even if Sam buys Oakhurst’s photos as proof he didn’t kill Pike, the cases he hired me for are still open. I’d like to talk about how to work them. And there are a lot of loose ends still in this one.”

  “Oh, so all this about pasta is just to get me to a working dinner?”

  “The anticipation of seeing me didn’t seem to be enough. I had to resort to food.”

  “Good choice. Where should I meet you?”

  “Morandi. Seventh Avenue South. Can you find it?”

  “Siri can. An hour?”

  “Sure.”

  We hung up. I had another cup of coffee and thought about art some more. And about Lydia.

  32

  I was still thinking about Lydia, or thinking about her again, when I woke up in the morning. She’d come home with me after our pasta dinner, but she hadn’t spent the night. I’d had the feeling for a while now we were playing a game of don’t-ask-don’t-tell with Mama Chin, and Lydia was the only one who knew the rules. I just went along. For now, it was all right; in fact, it was more than I’d once dared hope for.

  I showered and made coffee. Lydia by now would be on her way to Brooklyn to do the dog-walking due diligence. After I got caffeinated I was planning to take another run at Cromley. I was positive she hadn’t gone to Oakhurst’s only to tell him about Sam’s arrest.

  I’d just poured the coffee when the phone rang.

  “Smith.”

  “It’s Grimaldi.”

  “I see that. Get your warrant?”

  “I got more than that. I want you here, now.”

  “Where’s here?”

  “Tony Oakhurst’s studio. Now.”

  “My pleasure, but what do you need me for?”

  “Should I send a squad car?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I slugged down some coffee and called Lydia. I got her voice mail, so I told it where I was going. “It wasn’t an invitation,” I said. “I have a bad feeling about this.” I jogged to the subway and popped up at Penn Station. On my way to 39th Street, I picked up two more coffees.

  On Oakhurst’s block, I had to thread my way through a gathering crowd of people, the ones who are drawn to police lines like crows to cornmeal. No SWAT team was in evidence, but the crime scene van took up the loading zone outside Oakhurst’s studio, and I spotted the ME’s car, too. A freckled black cop whose nameplate read EPSTEIN was standing guard at the half-open door. He stopped me, listened to me, said, “Don’t touch anything,” and went inside to check with Grimaldi. I could see the doorknob and bell had been dusted for prints.

  A moment later, Epstein was back. “She says go in and wait.”

  I went in. Amara was hunched on one of the leather benches, wrapped in a blanket and sipping from a paper cup. A female officer sat beside her, a reassuring presence also there, I knew, to keep an eye on what Amara said and did, and to keep her from contacting anyone on the outside until the NYPD was good and ready. Behind the sitting area, at the back of the huge room, NYPD personnel of various kinds swarmed around one of the long tables. As the techs moved back and forth, I could see what the problem was.

  Oakhurst lay sprawled on the wide-plank wood floor. A crimson splotch ruined his white T-shirt. I couldn’t tell from where I stood whether he was alive or dead, but the Tyvek-suited ME crouched beside him was a hell of a big clue.

  Grimaldi crossed the studio wearing blue crime scene booties. With nitrile-gloved hands, she handed a pair to me. “Put these on.”

  “I’ll trade.” I offered her one of the coffees, the one with cream and sugar.

  “God,” she said. She took a long pull on it. “I could learn to like you.”

  “In spite of the historical animosity between our peoples?”

  “I need you to look at something.”

  “Any chance you’ll tell me what the hell happened first?” I sat on the leather bench across from Amara, who seemed not to notice me at all. I put my coffee down, pulled the booties on, picked up the coffee again, and stood.

  Grimaldi led me to a long table one over from the one Oakhurst lay beside. Once we were out of Amara’s earshot she said, “Someone killed that son of a bitch, what do you think?”

  “I don’t suppose you know who?”

  “I don’t suppose you can tell me?”

  “I just work here. Speaking of working here, is she any help?” I pointed my coffee cup toward Amara.

  “I was on my way here with the warrant when she called nine-one-one. The EMTs pulled up the same time I did. She says she opened up as usual and there he was.”

  “When?”

  “About an hour ago. If you mean when was he killed, one A.M., give or take.”

  “How?”

  “Shot.”

  “Did you find the gun?”

  “We found a gun. A .38.”

  “That’s right?”

  “Seems right. Two shots fired, two .38 slugs in the floor. It’s being tested.”

  I looked at her over my coffee. “You have the gun, why don’t you sound excited?”

  “It’s his.”

  “Oh. Crap. But not suicide?”

  “Hard to shoot yourself in the gut from six feet away. Also someone shot one of his fingers off. That’s actually easier to do to yourself, but I’m thinking he didn’t. But I’ll tell you something interesting. He’s missing an earring.” She tilted her head. “Well, look at that. I surprised you.”

  “You sure did.”

  “And somehow, call me crazy, I think this is connected to all the shit swirling around your wacko.”

  “Couldn’t be a break-in? Or maybe sex play gone wrong?”

  “Could be Santa Claus coming down the chimney armed for bear, for all I know. In case it’s not, though, you got any bright ideas?”

  “No, but I’ll bet he had enemies.”

  “Oh, no shit, Sherlock.”

  “At least we know it wasn’t Sam.”

  “How do we know that?”

  “Isn’t he still locked up?”

  Grimaldi gave a grim smile. “He’s out. Arraigned in night court about half past ten. Bail set at a quarter mil, brother and sister-in-law there at the ready.”

  “With the money? The sister-in-law, too?”

  “Cashier’s check. I guess they really didn’t want their wacko to have to spend the night in jail. He was out walking the streets before midnight.”

  “Oh,” I said, noting that at least briefly Sam wasn’t my wacko, and wondering where he’d actually spent the night.

  “So, we don’t know that after all,” Grimaldi said.

  “Did you talk to Ellissa Cromley yesterday about where she got the box with the earrings?”

  “You don’t ask for much, do you?”

  “You called me. And I brought you coffee.”

  “Of course I talked to her. Same story you got. She heard Tabor’s door shut, thought it was him arriving, but it must have been someone leaving, because no one was in there. She saw the drawer, took the box so Tabor wouldn’t run to me and incriminate himself with it.”

  “She give you any idea who it was who put it there?”

  “She give you one?”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “Oh, really?” She gave me a silent stare, then turned. “Hirahara.” She raised her voice. “You guys done with this?”

  An Asian woman in a CSU jacket, dusting for prints over by Amara’s desk, gave Grimaldi a thumbs-up. Grimaldi kept her nitrile gloves on anyway and clicked on the monitor, smearing the remaining traces of print-lifting powder.

  “These are what you saw yesterday, right?” she asked. “I need you to tell me if they’re all here.”

  “I’m not sure I can do that. There were dozens.”

  “Try.”
r />   “Amara might know more than I do.”

  “She turned it on for me. Then she fell apart. Look at her.”

  I did, then glanced at Grimaldi. Lydia had said yesterday that I was showing unaccustomed consideration for the sensitivities of a cop. Now that cop was showing surprising concern for the emotional state of a witness. “Well,” I said. “Okay, then.”

  Before we could get started, my phone rang. Lydia. Grimaldi said, “Let it go to voice mail,” but I’d anticipated that and answered fast.

  “Smith. Thanks for calling, Paul. I’m hoping you found that witness. They’re going to court this afternoon.”

  “Someone’s listening,” Lydia said. “Grimaldi?”

  “Right. Is he there?”

  “He, who? There, where?”

  “Well, try Victor. See if he knows.”

  “Victor, Victor… Sam’s bar. You’re looking for Sam. I thought he was in jail.”

  “Yes, and no. Thanks.”

  “On it. Can you tell me what happened at Oakhurst’s?”

  “No, that’s over.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Right. Thanks, talk to you later.”

  I said sorry to Grimaldi as I put the phone back in my pocket. “I have this guy hunting down a witness who got cold feet on another case.”

  “Keeping your wacko out of jail isn’t full-time work for you?”

  It seemed like a bad time to remind her that that wasn’t actually what I’d been hired to do. I settled for, “And I don’t get paid overtime like you do, either.”

  “Oh, screw you. Look here.”

  We both drank coffee as Grimaldi flipped through Oakhurst’s photo file. I was struck, as I had been yesterday, by the way some of these images were abstractly, aesthetically beautiful if you didn’t mind the subject matter. Most of what went by, though, were almost-identical shots, where Oakhurst hadn’t quite gotten the angle or the focus or the light the way he wanted it; and many were blurry or shadowy blunders. Oakhurst, I thought, would have hated the attention we were paying to his outtakes.

  After a while, something occurred to me. “Did you check his camera?” I asked Grimaldi. “He might have taken shots of his visitor last night.”

  She rolled her eyes above her tilted-back coffee cup. “I’m starting to remember why my people don’t like yours. Of course we did. Memory card’s gone. Also his cell phone, because I know you were about to ask. Just look at the pictures, please.”

  Watch the birdie. We continued going through the photos I’d seen yesterday. I didn’t like them any better than I had then, but nothing stood out as missing. Until we came to the end.

  “Where’s the silhouette?” I said. “It’s not here.”

  “What silhouette?”

  “It’s why he checked the truck. He saw someone leaving it, just a silhouette, he said. He showed it to me. It’s true, you can’t tell anything by it. But where is it?”

  “If you can’t tell anything by it, maybe he erased it.”

  “You can’t tell anything, but it’s beautiful. As art, as a photograph. And look at this.” I waved at the monitor. “Half of these aren’t any good, not useful or beautiful, but he hasn’t erased them. I bet he never erased anything, given the size of his ego. If he keeps all his outtakes, where’s the silhouette?”

  Grimaldi tapped her empty coffee cup on her lip, looking at the screen. She put the cup down and clicked again, opening the Whitney Riot file, and scrolled through to the end. “Nothing.” She looked across the room. “Stay here.”

  She walked over, leaned down and spoke to Amara. Amara paled, then rose unsteadily, huddled into the blanket. Steadfastly not looking to either side, she followed Grimaldi back to the table.

  “It’s okay,” Grimaldi said. “Take your time.”

  Amara rolled over a stool, sat, bit her lip, and started clicking. A panel of data appeared at the side of the final photo in the Riot folder. “Is that what you wanted to see?” Amara spoke in a soft monotone. Pointing to a set of numbers in 24-hour format, she said, “That’s the time he took it.”

  “What about the first one in the Truck folder?”

  Amara opened that folder and called up the data on the photo.

  “Damn it,” Grimaldi said. “Almost fifteen minutes later.”

  “Isn’t that unlike Tony?” I asked Amara. “When he’s found something worth shooting, to go that long without a shot?”

  Amara looked up at me and suddenly giggled. “Tony called you a candy-ass.” The giggling wasn’t a good sign; she could lose it any minute.

  “He is,” Grimaldi said, putting a hand on Amara’s shoulder. “But this is important. Try to hold it together, okay? Assuming Oakhurst—Tony—took photos in that fifteen minutes, where would they be?”

  Amara looked from me to Grimaldi. She took a deep breath, nodded, and squinted at the screen. After some more clicking and mouse-moving, she came up with a long list of names and numbers, which reorganized itself as she sorted it.

  “There,” she finally said, sounding a little surprised. “He hid a folder. He never does that. But see, the time? It’s from between the Truck folder and the Riot one.”

  “Can you open it?” Grimaldi leaned forward.

  Amara clicked some more. She frowned, moved the mouse, clicked again. Finally she sat back, looked at Grimaldi. “It’s empty.”

  Grimaldi said, “You sure?”

  Amara nodded. “It’s hidden, but it’s empty. I don’t know why he’d do that.”

  “I’m betting he didn’t. I think the killer erased what was in it.”

  Amara jerked her hand from the mouse as though it were on fire.

  “All right,” Grimaldi said. “Just one more thing. Are there any more hidden folders here?”

  Pale as a sheet, Amara stared at the mouse. She reached out for it tentatively, this thing the killer had touched. Swallowing, she clicked some more, ran through a few screens. “No,” she finally said. “Just that one.”

  “Okay. Good. Thanks. You can go home. Is there someone you can call?”

  “I’m okay.” Amara stepped off the stool. If being pale, shaky, and borderline hysterical was okay, she was fine.

  “Leopold!” Grimaldi called across the room to the cop who’d been sitting with Amara. “Amara here can leave. Find someone to take her home.”

  As Amara drifted across the room, Grimaldi turned back to me and said, “So, shit. The killer took the damn camera card and erased the damn photos. And took an earring. Like flipping us the bird. I hate wiseasses.”

  “Good thing I’m just a candy-ass,” I said. And then I had an inspiration. Because the first guy who’d called me that was Franklin Monroe.

  33

  I didn’t share my lightbulb moment with Grimaldi, just waited for her to dismiss me.

  “Okay,” she said as the ME’s techs zipped Tony Oakhurst into a thick black bag. “I’ve got work to do. Unless you have something else brilliant to add, you can go.”

  I shook my head. “I got nuthin.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t disappear on me, in case I need you again. And I hope you don’t feel like you’ve just got to tell people about this? Because I can put you on ice as a material witness if you think the urge is gonna be irresistible.”

  “About the photos? Or that Tony’s dead?”

  “The photos and the earring, for Christ’s sake. He’s probably on the news already.”

  That might’ve been true. The CSU and ME’s vans plus the NYPD radio would make Oakhurst’s death hard to keep secret. I wondered what he’d think of the crime scene photos of him lying dead on his studio floor.

  “I won’t mention them,” I said.

  “I might have to arrest your wacko again.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I might finally think he killed somebody!”

  “Yeah, okay,” I said. “I understand.”

  Grimaldi nodded. “Epstein! Let this guy out.”

  The crowd outside had grown,
and Grimaldi was right: the news vans had arrived to join the NYPD in filling loading zones all up the block. I pushed my way through and east, ignoring the shouts of “What’s going on?” “Who’re you?” “Who’s dead?” One imaginative soul shouted, “How many?”

  I cut and ran east; after a couple of blocks, when even the reporters had given up, I took out my phone.

  Monroe wasn’t happy to hear from me. “Oh, what the hell do you want? Can I be blunt? You’re not my kind of guy, Smith.”

  “You’re not mine, either, Franklin, but right now, you need me. I’m not a collector. I’m a private investigator and I want to talk to you. So do the police, but they don’t know that yet. Are you home?”

  “A private investigator? What the hell did you mean by telling me you were a collector, then?”

  “Tony told you that for his own reasons. I went along with it for mine. Are you home? I’m coming up there now, and you’d be stupid not to let me in.”

  I hung up, jumped in the subway, and walked into Monroe’s building twenty minutes later. I hoped, in that time, he hadn’t figured out what I was coming for.

  In the lobby, I went through the announcing-calling rigmarole with the doorman, who finally sent me up. Monroe was waiting in his open doorway, this time without the bright, toothy smile.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “Let’s go in.”

  “Why?”

  “So I don’t decide to yell your name while I bang on all the other doors in your hallway.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Who knows?”

  Monroe blew out an aggravated breath and stepped aside.

  I waited for him to close the door. “The raw photo from the night before last that Tony sent you. I need to see it.”

  “Ask Tony.”

  “Someone shot him early this morning. Probably over that photo.” I didn’t know that, but that was why I wanted to see it.

  “What?” Blood drained from his face. “Shot him? Who? Is he—dead?”

  “Yes, he’s dead. If I knew who, I wouldn’t be here. But hey, there’s an upside. You’ll love the crime scene photos from his studio.” I gave him a few seconds to absorb the news. “Whoever killed him erased some of the photos he had from the night at the Whitney. That makes you the only person known to have a copy of what he sent you.”