“I know you had it rough, Damien.”
“Do you?” His pale eyes were like two hard pieces of stone. “You?” He smirked. “Hey, you know Elena told me you couldn’t have kids of your own. Faulty wiring, that it, Kate?”
Kate felt the sting, but she would not let him see it.
Why hadn’t she thought of this before? ’Cause she was just a dumb bitch, that’s why. Janine popped open the vial of Percocet the nice young doctor had given her in case the stitches in her hand gave her any trouble.
She got a bottle of vodka out of the freezer, toted it back to the bedroom, its icy neck wedged between her fingers. She rearranged the pillows, propped herself against them, popped a couple of the Percocets, chased them down with ice-cold vodka.
The cold television light shimmered into the room, dissolving edges of pearl-gray Formica furniture and white satin sheets. VH-1 was doing two-for-one and that damn Vanessa Williams was singing another moody ballad. Janine thought that if she’d been light-skinned, too, had Vanessa’s green eyes and thin lips, well, maybe then her life would have been better. Maybe she, too, could have swapped porn for the big time, made millions, lived happily ever after. But it made her head pound to think about it. Another Percocet helped, and a gulp of vodka.
Why’d she have to go and introduce Elena to Trip? Fuck. Just thinking about her friend, the pain started up again. Not in her hand, or head, nowhere she could actually locate it, but it was real, eating her up inside, more than she could bear. Janine pushed herself off the bed. She needed something stronger.
She was going to save it, but why bother? The heroin Damien Trip delivered. Now that was a surprise. And without her even asking—or paying. Maybe because it’s not the best stuff, weak is what he called it, and since he couldn’t get away with selling it, he gave it to her. More likely dumping the shit. Whatever. But Janine was no fool. She knew that Trip was trying to buy her silence—figured if he was good to her she wouldn’t tell that she saw him with Elena the very day she was killed. A little late for that. Though she swore to him that she hadn’t said a word. Funny, though, that Trip hadn’t threatened her. It wasn’t like him. But with the Percocet and vodka kicking in, she couldn’t quite figure it out; her brain had gone fuzzy.
In the kitchen, she cooked up some of the heroin, filled a syringe.
The Interrogation Room was airless.
“Lace Is More,” said Kate. “Real funny title, Damien. Like ‘Less Is More.’ An art pun?”
“You tell me. You’re the fucking art expert,” said Trip. “Artists’ Lives. What a piece of shit that was.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t like my book, Damien. But let’s get back to your spectacular film, okay? Minimal artists always say that—less is more—don’t they? You know any Minimal artists, Damien?”
“Who gives a flying fuck about Minimal art?”
“Well, Ethan Stein did,” Kate said. “You know Ethan Stein, Damien?”
Trip seemed to twitch a second, said, “No.”
Kate sorted through the stacks of FBI printouts she had on the table, came up with Trip’s school records. “That’s odd. Because you two were classmates, at Pratt.”
Trip strained to see the printout. “Maybe.”
“Not maybe. Definitely.”
“I don’t remember him.”
“Really? You don’t remember the top painting student in your class? The one who went on to have a career in art, while you . . . you accomplished . . .” Kate ran her finger along the Pratt transcript. “Let’s see. You failed painting, failed drawing, in fact, you flunked out of art school. Then you flunked out of film school.” She leaned in close, her smile mean. “In fact, you’re kind of a loser, aren’t you, Damien? A real frustrated artist.”
Trip stared hard into her eyes.
“So now you’re getting it all out of your system. Taking revenge, right?” Kate laid the Ethan Stein card, White Light, on the table. “And you hated Stein, resented his success. Just couldn’t stand it, could you?”
“That guy was so fucking over, it wasn’t funny.”
“Oh. So you did know him?”
“I . . . followed his career—which was over.” He regarded the reproduction of Stein’s painting. “You call that shit art? I could do that with my eyes closed.”
“You’re so jealous of real artists it tears you apart, doesn’t it, Damien? They’re out there doing it, having success, making real art, while you—”
“Me?” Trip faltered a moment. “I’m not jealous of anyone.”
“No?” Kate spread a group of crime scene photos onto the table—Bill Pruitt, dead in his tub. “How about these? They look familiar to you?”
“What? You trying to pin this on me?”
“Pruitt had a whole collection of Amateur Films.”
“Hey, I love a fan.”
“But he was more than a fan, wasn’t he?” She slid the video onto the table. “Bill Pruitt and Janine Cook. A real sweet little film.”
Trip had gone pale. “He paid me to make that film.”
“How’d you meet him?”
“He came to me. He liked my films.”
Kate leaned in close again. “So Pruitt pays you to film him. Then what? You make your own copy, start blackmailing him?”
“I want to see my lawyer.”
Kate stayed right in his face. “Or was Pruitt financing your little porn operation, then decided he wanted out, and you got pissed?” She slid the printout of Trip’s high school suspensions at him. “You’ve always had a little temper problem, haven’t you?” Trip turned away, but Kate wouldn’t let up. She pushed Elena’s picture—the one with the bloody Picasso along her cheek—into his face. “So, what happened, Damien? Elena wanted out and you couldn’t take the humiliation?”
Trip looked up, his pale eyes on Kate’s, totally cold. “Who said she wanted out?”
“The way I hear it, she wanted out but you wouldn’t let her go.”
“Where’d you hear that? From her whore girlfriend, from Janine Cook? Well, she’s a liar! Elena wasn’t going anywhere.”
“So now you’re telling me that you and Elena did not break up, that it?” She was so close she could see the pores on his nose. “You can’t have it both ways, Damien. Either you were together, or apart. Either you broke up, or you didn’t. Together, or not? Which is it?” Trip pulled back, but Kate followed him. “The date on the film Lace Is More, with you and Elena, is only one month ago. One month ago. You get that? Or you need me to do the math?”
“Okay. So we were together. Big deal.”
Brown leaned into the room. “Lawyer’ll be here any minute.”
Kate grabbed hold of Trip’s wrist. “One more question, Damien. Why’d Elena do it? Make the films?”
That smirk was back on Trip’s swollen lips. “For the money, Kate. The money.”
* * *
Light streaked into the darkened bedroom. The photo of two smiling girls rested on the bedside table. Elena, thought Janine, staring at the photo, who I got killed.
Now it was some old Nina Simone concert video. Nina Simone: angry, sad—Janine’s all-time number one favorite. Nina, at the piano, not playing yet, singing a cappella, one of her usual sadder-than-sad numbers.
Janine pulled the rubber tube as tight as she could, slapped the veins in her arm, though she didn’t have much strength, just enough to slip the needle in and send the drug into her bloodstream. Nina Simone hit the piano keys. The tinkling ivory sounded like delicate raindrops on glass. Nina was singing about a bird, the breeze, something about the dawn and a new life.
Janine tried to echo the words. They dragged out as slow and thick as the vodka.
And then she felt it, the heroin speeding along her arteries, to her brain, her heart.
Was Nina Simone singing about a new life or was she just imagining it? The voice was so far away, the TV screen a blur of wild color, dissolving, melting in the corner. Then the drug was burning, setting off rockets. Janine’s ey
es flickered. Her breath caught in her throat. Then she saw them—those two little girls in matching plaid skirts, white shirts, knee-high socks, laughing—just before the drug stopped her heart.
The youngish woman brushed her way past Brown, laid her soft brown leather briefcase on the metal table, popped it open. “I want a copy of the arrest papers. All the charges,” she said. Then to Trip: “They have no right to be questioning you.” Then to Brown and Kate: “Nothing my client said here is admissible.” She regarded his bruised face. “Harassment? Assault? Oh, this is going to be a very nice case.”
“I’ve been here all night,” Trip whined. “In the tank.”
“And you’ve detained my client since last night?” She removed her tortoiseshell glasses. “Detective Brown, I’m surprised. I thought you knew better.”
“Nice to see you, too, Susan,” said Brown.
The lawyer shoved her hands into the pockets of her chalk-stripe suit jacket, eyed Kate. “And you are?”
Kate thought the suit made her look like a gangster. “Katherine McKinnon Rothstein.”
“Oh.” A look of recognition spread across the lawyer’s face. “I know your husband.” She half smiled. “I have a feeling you’ll be needing his services.” The lawyer’s attention quickly returned to Trip. “Bail’s been made. Come on.”
“Lawyers,” said Brown, disgusted, as the Interrogation Room door slammed shut. “Susan Chase. Name mean anything to you?”
“Drug lawyer to the stars, right?”
“Right. Trip must be tied into some heavy hitters.”
“We still have Janine Cook. She can place Damien Trip with Elena Solana on the day of the murder.”
“Better get her in here,” said Brown. “Fast.”
“I already sent a uniform to her place.” Kate’s head was starting to ache. “What if Trip decides to skip town?”
“With that lawyer?” said Brown. “He won’t be going anywhere. I doubt he’s even worried.”
Twenty minutes later, Kate was slumped in a chair opposite Floyd Brown.
“Janine Cook is dead,” he said.
Kate sat forward; her face had gone white. “What? When?”
“Sometime this morning. Heroin overdose.” Brown sighed.
Kate shook her head slowly. “Damn it. Damien Trip could have supplied the stuff. He had the drugs.”
“Yeah,” said Brown, frowning. “But we gotta prove it.”
The conference room seemed airless. Kate was feeling that mixture of adrenaline and exhaustion, the way she used to feel when she pulled an all-nighter for an art history exam, used a little speed to help, and it wore off.
Mead was sweating. “I just got a slew of papers from Chase, Shebairo, and Mason,” he said. “Trip’s lawyers are charging us with harassment, and—”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Brown.
“No?” Mead tugged at his collar. ‘Well, maybe you’d better.”
“Look,” said Brown. “We’ve got enough on Trip to tie him to Pruitt and Stein—”
“Circumstantially,” said Mead.
“We can place him with Solana the day of her murder,” said Slattery.
“Yeah,” said Mead, sucking his teeth with disgust, “by a dead witness.” He sighed. “Okay. I can see that Trip is linked to the vics. But why you, McKinnon? Why would Trip pick you out?”
“He hated my guts. Elena built me up as some sort of angel, the perfect mom. I think it stuck in his craw. Then there’s the art angle, the fact that I wrote a book about artists, that I made Elena and other artists famous. Plus the fact that he’s a total failure, so sick with jealousy toward any real artist that it’s fucking palpable.”
Mead nodded, folded his hands tightly. “Okay, people. Trip’s arraignment is set for next Thursday. Meanwhile, I want you to pull everything together on the guy and get it to the DA.” He looked from Kate to Brown. “You two, go back and search every inch of Trip’s place.”
“Anything in particular we’re looking for?” Brown asked.
“I want to see every video in that place—every letter, every invoice, every scrap of paper. I want to see his fucking underwear, for Christ’s sake! I want this case tighter than a virgin’s pussy.” Mead wiped the sweat off his upper lip. “Anything I’m missing? I don’t want us getting caught off-guard here.”
“One thing,” said Kate. “Darton Washington. There’s Ethan Stein’s diary entry, plus the phone records that prove he was in contact with Elena Solana just before she was murdered.”
“Get on it,” said Mead.
29
The large room was a buzz of activity: thirty, forty uniforms and detectives all working phones. It could have been a bookie joint, if it weren’t General Investigation.
Kate found the detective behind a desk piled high with stacks of papers, four or five empty Fresca cans, what looked like a half-eaten tuna on rye with the lettuce picked out and wilting on some curling wax paper. The detective looked up, pulled a hand through his thick salt-and-pepper hair.
“You called. Said you had something for me?”
“Right.” He started shifting everything around frantically, the Fresca cans, tuna sandwich, stacks of paper. “It’s here somewhere, I swear.”
“How do you find anything, Rizak?”
“I got a system.” He dumped the empty cans into an already overflowing trash basket. “Here it is.” He handed Kate a single sheet of paper with one short paragraph, typed. “We ran Pruitt’s stock portfolio through the computer with all the names you gave me—Solana, Stein, Washington, Trip. Only one match.” He tapped the paper in her hand. “Darton Washington. He worked for FirstRate Music. Pruitt was a major stockholder.” Rizak shuffled more papers, found what he was looking for on a crumpled Post-It. “My notes,” he said. “I called FirstRate, asked about Washington. He was fired three weeks ago. And according to the CEO, guy named Aaron Feldman, there was a lot of pressure to dump the rap music division. Considered too smutty, or something.” Rizak made a who-cares? face. “But the one leading the battle against all that dirty-mouthed rap music was your very own William Pruitt.”
Kate gave Rizak’s shoulder a tap. “Great work. I’ll let them know about you in homicide.”
The detective grinned, scooped up his tuna on rye, took a big bite.
A schizophrenic library: one side dusty narrow corridors of shelves stacked with boxes; the other, a row of fancy new computers. Kate attempted to fill in forms as quickly as possible. Darton Washington fired because of Bill Pruitt. Now she wanted to check further, see what that juvey case was all about.
The clerk rapped her nails along the counter as if she were practicing “Chopsticks” on the piano. “I was supposed to go on break five minutes ago,” she chirped in nasal Brooklynese. She glanced down at Kate’s ID, then up, gave her the once-over. “You don’t look familiar.”
“Working with Mead” was all Kate offered.
“Lucky you.” The clerk rolled her eyes, plucked Kate’s request from her hand, disappeared behind her computer.
Kate filled the time staring at a wall of police notices: a party for the Benevolent Society, a recruitment poster for Big Brother, a couple of apartment-share requests from rookies.
The clerk’s pale face came back to the window, framed, picking up a greenish glow from the computer. “We got about two hundred Washingtons on microfiche. Of that, sixty-three Ds.”
“Oh. Sorry. His first name is Darton. D-A-R—”
“Yeah. Yeah. I can spell.” She disappeared again, then was back, sat, sighed, punched something into the computer. “Okay. Washington, Darton. Yeah. Here we go.” She slapped another form onto the counter.
“What’s this for?”
“You want the printout? You gotta sign for it.”
“So you found it?”
“Washington, Darton. Two arrests. Assault and statutory rape.”
Kate peered through the two-way mirror into the Interrogation Room, watched as Darton Washington twi
sted a chunky gold ring around his index finger, his powerful body squeezed into a wooden chair that looked as if it could shatter.
Her first thought had been to race all the way down to Washington Street, but she was just too tired and, truthfully, she liked having the security of the police station around her—she sensed more than a little rage behind Washington’s polished veneer.
Kate mustered what remained of her vigor as she walked into the room.
“What’s going on?” Washington’s eyes sparked with anger.
“I need to ask you a few questions.”
He shifted his muscular bulk; the chair creaked. “I’m not saying a word until I call my lawyer.”
Kate handed him copies of his two old rap sheets.
“This? Are you kidding? I was seventeen when I had that fight. Assault, my ass. And this other one—did you even bother to read it all the way through? I was cleared. Get it? No conviction. That girl looked older than me! Fifteen? She looked thirty.” His fists were opening and closing as if they were being mechanically pumped. “My lawyer had it dismissed.” He rapped the table. “Why does it even exist? I want to see my lawyer.”
Kate kept her voice level. “By all means, talk to your lawyer. If you were seventeen, this should have been expunged. As for the other one, I don’t know. But it’s still in the program, and nowhere does it say it was dismissed.” She spread her hands on the table. “Look, Darton. I don’t care about that.”
“So then why am I here?”
“You owned an Ethan Stein painting—”
“And there’s a law against that?”
“You went to the artist’s studio a week before he was murdered.”
“No. I did not.”
“Your name is in Ethan Stein’s date book.”
Washington shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I canceled that appointment. I was tied up at work.”
No way Kate could prove or dispute that—now that Stein was dead.
“I was thinking about buying another one of his paintings, particularly since his market was low. I liked his work. I already told you that.”
The Death Artist Page 24
