The Death Artist

by Jonathan Santlofer

  Hours later, the images continued to echo. Dinner was solemn as Kate attempted small talk with Richard.

  She picked at her lemon chicken. “Is it all right if I bounce a few ideas off you?”

  Richard refilled their glasses with a California cabernet. “Sure.”

  “I’m trying to piece together what happened that night. First, the intruder, the street person/junkie theory is no good. Elena had to have been killed by someone she knew.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “One: There were no signs of a break-in. Two: The front-door lock was not picked or broken. Three: The window was still locked. And four: She was making him coffee.”

  Richard peered at her over the rim of his wineglass. “How do you know that?”

  “There was an open bag of Colombian coffee on the kitchen counter next to a box of filters and a broken glass percolator on the floor.” Her eyes glowed. “So, Elena makes him coffee—but they never drink it. No dirty coffee cups anywhere—not even the sink.”

  “He cleaned up?”

  “Maybe. Probably. But I also have a feeling it progressed to sex before they got to the coffee.” Kate lifted her glass, but did not drink. “It may have started out consensual, but they never made it to the bedroom. The bed was still made.” She took a breath, seemed to draw strength from it. “Obviously, something went very wrong.” Kate drummed her fingers on the crystal glass. “I’ve got to figure a way to get my hands on the coroner’s report to know if Elena was raped. Don’t you know anyone in the coroner’s office?”

  “Not really.” He frowned. “And then what? I mean, once you get the autopsy, what do you do?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But it will certainly tell me more about what happened.”

  Richard frowned again. “It worries me, you acting the cop again. You’re my wife now. And I love you.”

  “Then be patient, okay?”

  Richard managed to smile.

  Kate smiled, too. But at the same moment her mind was flooded with images: shards of glass around Elena’s feet, the geometric pattern of the bedroom quilt, congealed blood on the kitchen floor. “Hold me, okay?”

  Richard was up fast. He slid an arm over her shoulder, the other around her waist. For a moment, Kate could play the little girl, a role she had to give up too early in life. For a minute, she considered showing him that creepy graduation photo, but no, not now. She didn’t want to ruin the moment.

  Richard’s fingers skipped lightly over the flesh of her arm.

  “If I asked you to make love to me, would you think I was weird? I mean, is it too soon?”

  He grabbed her ass playfully. “Never too soon.”

  “You’re a classy guy, Rothstein.” She hugged him closer. “I think I need to lose myself.” Her words, soft in his ear, were little more than a breath.

  “So let’s get lost.”

  In the bedroom, Kate tapped the music control panel, selected a favorite fifties Motown singer, Barbara Lewis, and sang along with “Hello Stranger” as she tugged her sweater over her head.

  Richard stood. Unhooked his belt. Unzipped, yanked at his pants, which jammed at his cordovan oxfords.

  “I think it’s shoes and socks first, then pants. Didn’t your mother teach you anything?”

  “Not about this.” Richard laughed, unlaced his oxfords, tossed them to the floor.

  Kate shimmied out of her slacks, lay back against the white cloud of pillows.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, standing above her in boxers and high brown socks.

  “You would, too.” She made a face. “Without the socks.”

  Socks off in a flash, he unhooked her bra even faster, kissed her breasts.

  Barbara Lewis crooned about how long it had been.

  “I agree with Barbara,” said Kate. She gently tugged Richard’s head up toward hers, gazed into his night blue eyes, kissed his lips.

  His tongue moved gently in her mouth.

  She closed her eyes: a blue screen, shimmering purple, then red. Richard’s hand was on her breast, fingers teasing her nipple hard. Now the red went deep plum, congealed in the dark theater of her mind’s eye into long vertical streaks. A flash of light—a photographer’s strobe. Stark white. Kate’s lids twitched open. Richard’s face in close-up: foot-long eyelashes, pores like craters. But his lips lay warm on hers; his tongue still dancing.

  Kate locked her eyelids shut. Blackness. Yes, that’s it, what she wanted. The void. And touch. To feel alive. His hand stroked her thigh, fingers grazed the edge of lace panties, then slid under.

  But now the black had brightened. First umber, then sienna, then to the gray-pink of sickly flesh, which morphed into an arm, a leg, one jutting straight out, another bent; around them, pools of blood as red as overripe tomatoes, spread as though the heart in that violated torso were still pumping. Kate strained to hear the music, but the whoosh of ventricles, aorta, drowned it out—or was that the sound of her own heart beating in her ears?

  Richard was on top of her now, erect, wedged between her thighs, warm breath on her cheek.

  Behind Kate’s closed eyes, Elena’s stagnant pupils reflected nothing.

  Kate’s eyes flipped open. Beyond her husband’s naked shoulder, linen curtains, just barely discernible, undulated like ghosts. Her breath caught in her throat.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes,” she lied, pulled him closer. “I’m fine.”

  Yes, it was okay. She was okay. She’d keep her eyes open, that’s all. She picked out objects in the dark, stared at them until their shapes were tangible, clear: the antique brass handles of the armoire; a bottle of Bal à Versailles on her dresser; Willie’s assemblage—shards of wood, curling wires, impasto paint. But beside the painting a dark-bronze abstract sculpture appeared to pulsate on its stand, then slid off like primordial goo and slumped toward the baseboard, where it coagulated into something vaguely humanoid. From nowhere, a woman in a brown pantsuit materialized, stabbed at the lumpish form with gloved fingers.

  She gasped just as Richard entered her, his body moving against hers, his cock a gently determined piston.

  Eyes opened. Shut. Opened. Shut. No difference. Now it was blood streaks, flashbulbs, body bags.

  Kate cried out.

  Richard stopped short. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” said Kate, hugging him to her.

  “You sure?”

  “Fine.” Kate stared at the freckles on Richard’s shoulder, the hair curling behind his ears; inhaled the smell of his aftershave—anything to keep her in the moment; anything that would make her feel alive.

  7

  Willie stared at the return address, slowly opened the padded envelope. Inside, a sheet of white paper and a book. He noted the date: just days before Elena died.

  Dear Willie,

  I’m sorry we fought. You know I love you and support you. What I said to you comes from my own experience as a Latina woman, which is possibly very different from your experience, though I doubt it. (Uh-oh, there I go again. SORRY.) Still, the whole thing about artists of color is an issue that I want to keep talking about (just try to shut me up!). I thought you’d enjoy this book of Langston Hughes’s poetry. Read “Theme for English B.” It addresses the whole race/color issue in relation to art. Truthfully, I’m not sure if Langston Hughes makes a better case for my argument or yours, but that doesn’t matter. We will already have kissed and made up before you read this.

  Love you. E.

  Willie pinned the letter to his studio wall. He stared at the words until they were nothing more than a blur through his tears.

  The paint was drying on Willie’s large glass palette. He picked at a blob of hardening pigment with an aluminum palette knife. If there was one thing Willie knew to be true, it was this: art was—and always had been—his one salvation. It had kept his spirit alive all those years in the projects, and it would save him now. He also knew it was exactly what Elena would say if she were here with him now. He pluck
ed a large white bristle brush from a Maxwell House coffee can, swiped it through some cadmium red paint.

  Hours later—how many? Willie couldn’t tell. He was lost in his painting. The central image of his newest piece, an over-sized man’s head copied from the back of the Langston Hughes book of poetry, had been rendered with an intentionally crude hand—but the likeness was strong. Across the poet’s face a few lines of “Theme for English B” were painted in shimmering aquamarine; surrounding them, and the head, tenement buildings were painted in heavy black and white strokes.

  The doorbell’s first buzz was lost under the Notorious B.I.G.’s heavy rapping. The second time, Willie decided it was just some jerk passing by, hitting all the buzzers—hardly anyone in Manhattan drops by without calling. But a minute later the damn buzzer was going again—one long bleat followed by four staccato hits. Willie slammed his paintbrushes onto the palette.

  His brother’s raspy voice through the intercom’s static: “It’s me.”

  Henry. Shit.

  Henry had lost weight, his cheeks more sunken than usual, eyes haunted. He looked a lot older than he was—at least ten years older than Willie instead of three. No one would take them for brothers. Even as kids, they had looked totally different. Henry’s face, much like their mother’s, was long and thin; Willie’s features were rounder, softer, closer to that soldier’s—the one who never came home.

  Henry shifted his weight from one foot to the other, nervous, jumpy. His shoes were split and worn; he wore no socks, and it was a cool, damp day, more like March than May. He folded his thin body into one of Willie’s wooden kitchen chairs. “You got something to drink?”

  “Coffee?”

  “You got something stronger?”

  “I’ve got a few beers, some bourbon, that’s about it.”

  “Bourbon sounds good.”

  Willie set a pot of water on the stove, searched under the sink for the half bottle of bourbon that someone had left in his loft over a year ago. He watched his brother pour himself a shot, toss it down. “Can’t wait for the coffee, huh?”

  Henry looked up, that mean scowl on his face, the one Willie remembered from the last year Henry had lived at home with the family, when he’d gotten heavy into drugs and was always fighting with their mother, with Willie, with anyone who would bother to fight back. “You got a problem with that?”

  Willie sighed. He didn’t want to fight. “No, Henry. No problem.”

  Henry fiddled with the bowl of sugar packets, tore several open at once, poured the crystals into his mouth. Willie recognized the junkie’s craving.

  “It’s real good to see you, little bro.” That troubled look was back on Henry’s face. “It’s been a bad time for me—these last couple of weeks.” He helped himself to another shot of bourbon. “Things ain’t been as good to me as they been to you.”

  Willie dragged his palm back and forth across his forehead; a headache was beginning to take hold.

  In the background, the CD was playing loud and Willie wished he’d thought to turn it off before he brought Henry up. Now he didn’t want to make a move, so he had to sit there listening to the Notorious B.I.G. going on about “somebody’s gotta die.”

  Henry grabbed Willie’s wrist. “Nice watch, man. How much you pay for that?”

  “It was a gift.”

  “Oh yeah? Nobody ever gave me a gift like that. You got yourself some fancy girl, that it? A white chick, right? What’s it worth?”

  “It was a gift. I have no idea,” Willie lied. He had a very good idea. It was a birthday gift from Kate. He’d seen similar platinum watches in stores, knew what they cost, had been kind of shocked, and pleased, too, by the extravagance.

  Henry nodded toward Willie’s studio. “You got yourself a real good scam here.” He cocked his thumb at the new Langston Hughes painting. “You sell that shit?”

  “Yes,” said Willie, the word hissed between clenched teeth.

  “How much?”

  “It depends,” he said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “I only get to keep half. My gallery splits everything fifty-fifty.”

  “That so? Sounds like they got a even better scam going than you.” He poured more bourbon into his empty coffee cup. “So, like, how much is your half?”

  “None of your business.”

  Henry squinted at him, his dark eyes cold. “I could’ve done that, been a fucking artist. You know that?”

  That sad old could-have-been song. Here it comes. Willy nodded halfheartedly.

  “I had talent, little brother. A lot of talent.”

  “Yes, Henry. I know.” Willie sighed. “You were good.”

  “Damn good. Better than good. I had real talent.” Another cock of his head toward Willie’s studio. He downed a shot of bourbon. “Fuck, I could do that shit blindfolded.”

  The Notorious B.I.G. was stuck on repeat and that same damn rap song—“Somebody’s Gotta Die”—kept playing over and over and over.

  “You got all the breaks, little brother.”

  Willie stood, tired of waiting for Henry to ask for the money he knew he’d come for. Henry never came by unless he wanted something. “I don’t have much money here,” said Willie, impatient. “And I give a lot of what I make to Ma.”

  “Yeah. I know that.” Melancholy erased the scowl from Henry’s lips. “That’s not why I come.”

  “No? Why then?”

  Henry looked down at his hands, picked at a scab. “You think I only come for money?”

  “Just tell me what’s on your mind, okay, Henry?”

  Bourbon spilled over the sides of Henry’s cup, his hands had begun to shake. “You know I really like that little girl-friend of yours. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Who? You mean . . . Elena?”

  Henry nodded, poured the last of the bourbon into his cup.

  Jesus. Henry interested in Elena? Of course Henry had known Elena for years, since they were kids back in the South Bronx. But romantically? Was he kidding? Willie took a long, hard look at his brother: his coffee-colored skin gone gray with a junkie’s pallor, his bloodshot eyes, his cheekbones like two hard slashes in his too-thin face. But now there was that scared look under the street-battered defiance, and it tore at Willie’s heart. “Yeah. She likes you, too, Henry.” Speaking of Elena in the present hurt. He paused, took a breath. “Do you know what happened?”

  “I like her a lot, man, and—”

  “You already said that.” Willie was losing patience again. “I asked if you knew what happened, to Elena. That she’s . . . dead.”

  “Yeah.” Henry’s body shuddered. “I know that.”

  “How? How do you know?”

  “I can read,” said Henry.

  Willie sighed. “So what about her? What about Elena?”

  But Henry seemed to shrink into himself, his eyes glazed over as though he were listening to some inner voice.

  “What is it, Henry?”

  Henry stared into his empty coffee cup. “You got more bourbon?”

  “No.” Willie snatched the bottle from his brother’s shaking hand, flung it into a metal trash can. The sound of breaking glass was like atonal music.

  Henry bolted up, slammed his angular body against Willie’s, the veins in his forehead pulsing, his sudden strength fueled by anger.

  “Relax, Henry. Be cool.”

  “Cool?” Henry’s eyes were black granite.

  Willie pulled out of his brother’s grip. “Jesus, Henry. What’s with you?”

  Henry stared at him, then sagged. “Sorry.” He shook his head, then his arms, legs, the anger falling off him like snow. “I didn’t mean it. It’s just that—” There were tears in his eyes.

  “Oh, shit, Henry. I’m sorry, too.”

  Henry waved him off, started shuffling toward the door.

  “Hold on.” Willie disappeared into his bedroom, returned with his wallet. “All I’ve got is thirty-six dollars.” He pushed the bills into his brother’s stained hands.r />
  “They laid me off at the messenger place. But I’ll get another gig, man, another messenger job, real soon. I’ll pay you back.”

  “Sure you will.”

  “I didn’t do anything, Will.”

  “Who said you did?”

  “But . . . they might.”

  Willie stared into his brother’s eyes, the dilated pupils, bloodshot whites. “What are you talking about?”

  His brother swallowed hard. “Nothing.” His hands had begun to shake again.

  “Shit, Henry. What’s wrong?”

  But Henry was shaking so bad now, he couldn’t speak. Willie hugged his brother to him. All the strength was gone; Henry felt like a bunch of dried twigs about to crack. Willie held on to him until the tremors subsided.

  “I’m . . . okay,” said Henry, pulling away.

  “Hey, wait a minute.” Willie dug into a dresser drawer, came up with a pair of wool socks. “Put these on. It’s damp out today.”

  Henry pulled his shoes off, rolled the socks on gingerly, as though even the soft wool chafed. Willie stared at his brother’s blotchy, swollen feet. He felt tears burning behind his eyes. “Don’t you have a coat, a jacket?”

  “Lost it,” said Henry, looking away.

  Willie yanked an old blue parka off a hanger, laid it over Henry’s shoulders. “Hey. By next month it’ll be warm,” he said, trying to smile.

  But once Henry was gone, it didn’t matter what Willie tried to do in that new painting, or how many times he changed the goddamn music. Nothing worked.

  8

  Homicide Detective Floyd Brown Jr. was just sitting down to dinner—three hours late—when the phone rang. His wife, Vonette, took the call, whispered “Mead,” her hand over the receiver.

  Floyd dropped his fork. Mead must be calling for an update on the arrest of the Central Park Shooter, the cause for the three-hour delay of his dinner. Floyd suspected that Mead was worried they wouldn’t get the charges to stick; the wacko had hit five people in the past six months, but no victim had lived long enough to make an ID. Still, Floyd wasn’t worried. This afternoon he’d spent over three hours with the psycho. This one needed to confess, and Floyd had been ready to help the guy unburden his tortured soul. Now he’d get that vacation he’d earned after two months of working nights and weekends.