Kate took in the scene: Charlie Kent’s decapitated body and the young woman’s head, on a plate.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Mills. “Oh. I have an idea. One more game.” He smiled. “Quick now, Kate. Artist and painting.” He pointed the Glock away from her, at Willie’s head. “You’ve got three guesses. Then I kill him. That’s fair, isn’t it? I mean, you are, after all, the great art historian.” He smiled again. “I know, I know. According to my own drawing, I’m supposed to kill the boy with a knife. But let’s not quibble. We’re all professionals here.” He cocked the trigger. “Okay. Come on. Start guessing.”
Kate’s mind had gone absolutely blank. All she could think of was the man standing in front of her, how she had known him—and never known him—for all those years. Schuyler Mills, senior curator at the Contemporary Museum. My God. The man’s had dinner in my house!
“Come on,” he said.
“Okay. Okay. Give me a minute.”
“That’s reasonable.” He looked at his watch. “One minute. Go.”
Kate’s mind started clicking. “It’s a Renaissance painting, right?”
“Very good. But not what I asked for. I want the artist’s name and the painting title.” He regarded his watch again. “Forty seconds.”
“Caravaggio.”
“Wrong. Thirty-three seconds.”
Oh, God. Think. Think. “Titian.”
“Wrong again. Twenty-eight seconds.”
Oh my God. “Wait. Please.”
“One hint. But I don’t know why I should help you. It’s a woman painter.”
“Artemisia Gentileschi!”
“Damn, you’re good. Okay now. Title?”
“David Slaying Goliath.”
“Oh, come, now, Ms. Kent can’t be playing those boys.”
“Right. Right.” Kate’s blood was pumping in her ears. “Judith Beheading the Assyrian!”
“Bingo!” He smiled broadly. “I knew you were worth the trouble.” He swung the Glock back toward her, training it on her heart. “You really do play the game well, Kate.”
“Thank you,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “So do you, Sky.” She was still half in shock. Schuyler Mills, all these years.
“It’s a shame it has to end.”
“Couldn’t we just . . . go on playing?”
“Don’t patronize me, Kate. I’m not a stupid man.”
Kate took another step closer.
“Stay there,” he said, the Glock trained on her heart again. “Now, what were we talking about?”
“Our game.”
“Right. You missed one.”
“I did. Really? What was that?”
“A long time ago. The teenager. A hitchhiker. Back in Queens.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Kate, inching toward him in slow motion. “It was an early work. I didn’t think you’d want me to make much of it, that’s all. An angel, right? A sort of putto figure.”
A huge smile broke across his face. “I can’t believe it. You knew?”
“Well, to be perfectly honest . . .” She took another small step closer. “I only figured it out recently.”
He nodded. “It showed promise, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely.”
His face turned steely. “So why’d you fuck with it? Pull her pants up like that?” He swiveled the gun back toward Willie’s head. Willie blinked.
“I, well, at the time, I—I didn’t know it was your work. As I said, I only recently . . .” Kate was trying to remain calm, to think, but it was almost impossible.
“It’s uncanny, isn’t it? I mean, the way our lives have paralleled, Kate. There you were, the young cop, so tough, so beautiful, at the beginning of the birth. My birth. As an artist. Oh, sure, there were others, but they hardly mattered. And then, years pass—and there you are again. Your art book, and the TV series. And then you showed up at the museum. I could not believe it. My museum. On the board, no less. I took it as an omen.”
Kate was watching him closely, as his eyes glazed slightly, his concentration not what it should be. Soon. Soon.
“And then, that night, as I watched her, your protégée, it came to me, a way to finally get your attention, for us to be together. I wasn’t sure; I mean, it was still just an idea, something inchoate, not quite a concept.” His lids fluttered.
Should she chance it? Not yet. But soon.
“But then, when I was in her apartment, I thought better of it. You see, it had been years. I thought I was over it. And then . . . she laughed at me.” He frowned, then checked his watch. “The others will be coming soon, won’t they?”
“Who?”
“Oh, please, Kate. You figured it out and told them. They’ll be here. I know we haven’t got much time left.”
Behind him, Kate saw the small revolver on the floor, only inches from Willie’s hand.
“I guess we were destined to be together, Kate. Me, the artist. You, the woman who would canonize my work.”
“But how will I do that if I’m dead?”
“I have a plan.” He looked down at Bill Pruitt’s altarpiece. “You and me, Kate, Madonna and Child. What do you think?”
“Really? Who’s playing who?”
His shrill laugh echoed into the space. The pigeons batted their wings overhead. “Very funny. I can always depend on you for irony, Kate.” He aimed the Glock. “But I’m afraid I will have to kill you.”
“Wait a minute.” Keep him talking. “I don’t quite get it. The Madonna and Child? You and me? Explain it to me. Be clear. I want to picture it perfectly.”
“It’s very simple. First, I kill you. Then, I arrange your body, just like the Madonna in the painting. Then I strip off my clothes, and curl in your arms. I’ll be taking pills.” He sighed, seemed to smile at the thought. “By the time they find us, I’ll be dead, too.”
“What about Willie?” Kate asked, her mind racing. “He’s not part of this. Why not let him go? He can tell the world how you designed it, how beautifully it was conceived. Otherwise, they might not get it.”
“Oh, Kate. They’ll get it—with the actual altarpiece right beside us. Anyway, Willie has to star in his own piece, the Basquiat.” He rotated the Glock toward Willie.
“Wait!” Kate had to stop him. “I want to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“Uh . . .” Kate searched her mind for something, anything, to stall. “Tell me about your work. Why you chose Bill Pruitt, for example?”
He sighed again. “Okay. But then we really must get down to work, okay?”
Kate nodded, watching him, waiting.
“Well, first of all, it was a matter of convenience. Pruitt wasn’t going to choose me as director of the museum. I couldn’t stand for that. Believe me, I did not enjoy working with him, touching his flaccid, fleshy body. But I made him a lot better in death than he ever was in life.”
“That’s true.” Kate’s eyes flickered at Willie, then at the revolver on the floor beside his hand. Willie blinked. His fingertips twitched slightly.
“I did the same for that boring painter, Ethan Stein.”
Kate took a step. She was close enough to grab the gun.
“Stop!” He rammed the Glock into her gut.
Kate stared into his eyes. Were those tears?
“How odd life is, don’t you think? I mean, I hadn’t meant to start up again. Really, I had it under control. But I had to prove it to him.”
“To who?”
“Him!” His eyes darted left, then right.
Kate was about to grab the gun, but he pushed it, hard, against her ribs.
“You can see that, can’t you?”
She nodded, but had no idea what he was talking about. What she saw was madness, but she saw the pain, too, even identified with it. How strange. When all she’d thought about, dreamed of, was killing him—this man who had stolen lives from her, torn her heart beyond repair. “Let me help you,” she said. “I can deliver
your message, your work, to the world.”
Mills smiled at her tenderly. “I wanted to stop, really I did.”
Then the voices: No, you didn’t! You’re a liar!
“I’m not!” He jammed his free hand against his temple. His eyelids fluttered.
Willie managed to stretch out his fingers, to touch the revolver’s barrel, but he only knocked it farther away.
Mills spun toward Willie.
This was it, her opportunity. Kate lunged, knocked the Glock from Schuyler’s hands.
But he was fast, going for it, Kate right behind him, but off-balance. She tripped, landed on her back, looking up at him, and the Glock’s barrel pointed directly at her forehead.
He cocked the trigger.
Kate kicked out at him.
He stumbled back.
She faked to the left just as he fired and missed. He was off-balance, but the Glock was still in his hands, shaking.
Kate rolled to her right, reached out, grabbed hold of his leg.
The Glock exploded again. This time, bullets sprayed the ceiling.
The pigeons scattered, beat their wings wildly.
It took all of three seconds for Kate to tear the .38 from her ankle and empty all six chambers.
Schuyler Mills clutched his chest. Beneath his fingers, his white shirt was a clean canvas for the dark red fanning out like a piece of cheap spin art. He looked surprised, then down at all the blood, at the assortment of holes in his shirt, then up at the black ceiling where the pigeons swooped and dived frantically. For a moment, he imagined himself with them, flying above all the pain. Then he slumped forward and crashed to the floor.
The gun was still smoking in Kate’s hand.
She quick-turned to Brown. “You okay?”
He could just barely move his head, managed to croak, “Fine.”
Kate tested for a pulse in the curator’s wrist. “He’s gone,” she said, then turned back to Brown.
There were sirens in the distance.
“Here.” Kate thrust the .38 into Brown’s limp hands. “Take it before the cavalry gets here.”
Brown’s words came out a hoarse, cracked whisper. “They . . . won’t believe . . . it. I’m . . . paralyzed.”
“Sure they will,” said Kate, wrapping his fingers around the barrel. “He shot that tranquilizer into you just as you fired at him, right?”
Brown’s eyes searched Kate’s. “But . . . why?”
“Because I’m just a civilian, remember, Floyd? But you might as well go down as the cop who killed the death artist.”
Patrol cars crowded the street.
Flashing lights streaked amber across the old docking house.
Sirens filled the night air with electricity.
“It was Brown who shot him,” Kate said to Mead and Tapell.
Brown was just able to wiggle his fingers. Kate watched a couple of medics hooking him up to an IV.
Willie was being loaded into the back of an ambulance. Kate touched his cheek lightly, stroked his forehead, fought back tears. “Take it easy, okay?”
A medic tore open Willie’s pant leg, swabbed yellow disinfectant onto his slashed thigh, then started wrapping it tightly with gauze. A second medic was wrapping Willie’s cut hand.
“You’ll be fine,” Kate whispered.
“Sure I will,” Willie croaked. “It’s only my . . . left hand. I paint . . . with my right.”
45
News of the death artist’s demise filled every newspaper for days; the tabloids for weeks. Psychological profiles of Schuyler Mills were cover stories on both Time and Newsweek; Mitch Freeman, FBI shrink, was generously quoted. Schuyler’s co-workers, Amy Schwartz and Raphael Perez, were instant media stars. It was even rumored that the handsome Latino curator was to play himself in the USA movie—The Death Artist—in preproduction only days after the man’s final curtain. Mead, too, had plenty to say, was often seen pontificating and sucking his teeth, on TV tabloid shows like Geraldo. Only Floyd Brown, considered the hero of the day (the mayor wanted to give him a medal, which he declined), avoided the spotlight.
The death artist had indeed achieved fame.
ArtNews ran a six-page story deconstructing the man’s murders, matching crime scene photos with the art upon which they were based. No one at the police department seemed to know how the magazine had gotten their hands on the photo- graphs. Ethan Stein’s family was suing ArtNews and the NYPD. They were also suing the Ward Wasserman Gallery, where Stein’s memorial exhibition had completely sold out, without the family’s receiving a single penny.
The estate of Amanda Lowe was demanding both printed and financial credit for the use of her death photos or mention of her name under the new licensing franchise they had established. It was rumored that they were already owed approximately half a million dollars, but were having trouble collecting.
Willie’s cuts and bruises were mending. He was back in the studio, working. A necessity. Virtually every painting he had made had been spoken for or sold. Collectors were jock-eying for positions on the waiting list for future pieces. He joked to Kate that if he had died, the demand would have been even higher. Kate did not laugh. She thanked God every day that she was able to save him.
For Kate, there remained a nagging lack of completion, coupled with melancholy. She was filling her time with charitable works—putting new seventh-grade classes together with the right people of means to adopt them through Let There Be a Future, establishing a scholarship in Maureen Slattery’s name at the foundation, even donating a hefty sum to the NYPD, also in the young policewoman’s name.
And she and Richard were drawing closer, managing to get past the anger, suspicions, and resentment built up over the past couple of weeks, and were working hard—if a bit too self-consciously—at considering each other’s needs and feelings. Kate bought Richard a new pair of cuff links engraved with one word: SORRY. Richard had taken to leaving little gifts—a thin gold bracelet, a hand-painted scarf—on her pillow each morning before taking off for work, always with the same note: I love you.
But questions about Elena continued to nag her. Why had the girl taken up with the likes of Damien Trip? Kate still couldn’t figure it out—and now there was no way she would ever know. Perhaps Richard was right, that you never really, fully knew anyone. But that thought only filled her with grief. The bigger question—why Elena had made those movies, why did she need money?—was something Kate needed to find out.
* * *
Did she really want to see Mrs. Solana? Kate was fairly certain the woman did not want to see her. But she was there now, knocking on the tenement door.
At first, when he saw Kate, Mendoza’s features hardened, but only for a second. He didn’t appear to have the strength to stay angry.
“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.
Mendo
za 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.”
ONE WEEK LATER
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.”
The Death Artist Page 38
