Did a moan issue from Lassiter’s throat? Paul couldn’t be sure. He smiled. “Well, I’m not too concerned about the silk. Merely curious. Not relevant to our purposes here. The more vital question you have surely is how I found you. Understandable. The short answer is that I learned from the newspaper accounts of the murders that you’re an organized offender. I deduced you plan everything out ahead of time. And you plan the sites of the killings and the escape routes meticulously.
“Someone like that would also want to know about the people tracking him down. I decided you’d be at the scene the morning after the killing. I observed everyone who was there. I was suspicious of the man sipping coffee and reading the sports section of the Post. I was pretty sure it was you. I’d known that the clue about the Ferragamo shoe was fake—why take off the booties in the dirt, when you could have walked three feet farther onto the asphalt and pulled them off there, not leaving any impressions for the police. That meant you weren’t rich at all but middle class—the shoes were to misdirect the cops. I knew you were strong and solidly built. All of those described the Post-reader pretty well.
“When I left the scene I was aware that you followed me back here. As soon as I got inside I grabbed a hat and new jacket and sunglasses and went out the back door. I started following you—right back to your apartment in Queens. A few internet searches and I got your identity.”
Paul enjoyed a long sip of milk. “An average cow in the U.S. produces nearly twenty thousand pounds of milk a year. I find that amazing.” He regarded the unfortunate man for a moment. “I’m a great fan of the Sherlock Holmes stories.” He nodded around the room at his shelves. “As you can probably see.”
“So that’s why the police aren’t here,” his prisoner muttered. “You’re going play the big hero, like Holmes, showing up the police with your brilliance. Who’re you going to turn me over to? The mayor? The police commissioner?”
“Not at all.” Paul added, “What I want is to employ you. As my assistant.”
“Assistant?”
“I want you to work for me. Be my sidekick. Though that’s a word I’ve never cared for, I must say.”
Lassiter gave a sour laugh. “This’s all pretty messed up. You think you’re some kind of Sherlock Holmes and you want me to be your Watson?”
Paul grimaced. “No, no, no. My hero in the books—” He waved at his shelves. “—isn’t Holmes. It’s Moriarty. Professor James Moriarty.”
“But wasn’t he, what do they say? Holmes’s nemesis.”
Paul quoted Holmes’s word from memory, “‘In calling Moriarty a criminal you are uttering libel in the eyes of the law—and there lie the glory and the wonder of it! The greatest schemer of all time, the organizer of every deviltry, the controlling brain of the underworld, a brain which might have made or marred the destiny of nations—that’s the man!’”
He continued, “Holmes was brilliant, yes, but he had no grand design, no drive. He was passive. Moriarty, on the other hand, was ambition personified. Always making plans for plots and conspiracies. He’s been my hero ever since I first read about him.” Paul’s eyes gazed affectionately at the books on his shelves that contained the stories involving Moriarty. “I studied math and science because of him. I became a professor, just like my hero.”
Paul thought back to his session with Dr. Levine not long ago
The Sherlock Holmes stories resonated with you for several reasons. I think primarily because of your talents: your intelligence, your natural skills at analysis, your powers of deduction—just like his. . . .
Dr. Levine had assumed Paul worshipped Holmes, and the patient didn’t think it wise to correct him; therapists presumably take role modeling of perpetrators like Moriarty, even if fictional, rather seriously.
“Moriarty only appeared in two stories as a character, was mentioned in just five others. But the shadow of his evil runs throughout the entire series and you get the impression that Holmes was always aware that a villain even smarter and more resourceful than he was always hovering nearby. He was my idol.” Paul smiled, his expression filled with reverent admiration. “So. I’ve decided to become a modern-day Moriarty. And that means having an assistant just like my hero did.”
“Like Watson?”
“No. Moriarty’s sidekick was Colonel Sebastian Moran, a retired military man, who specialized in murder. Exactly what I need. I wondered whom to pick. I don’t exactly hang out in criminal circles. So I began studying recent crimes in the city and read about the Upper East Side Slasher. You had the most promise. Oh, you made some mistakes, but I thought I could help you overcome your flaws—like returning to visit the scene of the crime, not planting enough fake evidence to shift the blame, attacking victims who were very similar, which establishes patterns and makes profiling easier. And for heaven’s sake, eating a power bar while you waited for your victim? Please. You are capable of better, Lassiter.”
The man was silent. His expression said he acknowledged that Paul was correct.
“But first I needed to save you from the police. I helped Detective Carrera come up with a profile of the perp that was very specific, very credible . . . and described someone completely different from you.”
“Maybe, but they’re out there looking for me.”
“Oh, they are?” Paul asked wryly.
“What do you mean?”
He found the cable box remote. He fiddled for a moment. “You know, in the past we’d have to wait until the top of the hour to see the news. Now, they’ve got that twenty-four/seven cycle. Tedious usually but helpful occasionally.”
The TV came to life.
Actually it was a Geico commercial.
“Can’t do much about those,” Paul said with a grimacing nod at the screen. “Though they can be funny. The squirrels’re the best.”
A moment later an anchorwoman appeared. “If you’re just joining us—”
“Which we are,” Paul chimed in.
`”NYPD officials have reported that the so-called Upper East Side Slasher, allegedly responsible for the murders of three women in Manhattan and, earlier tonight, of Detective Albert Carrera of the NYPD, has been arrested. He’s been identified as Franklyn Moss, a journalist and blogger.”
“Jesus! What?”
Paul shushed Lassiter.
“Detective Carrera was found stabbed to death about 5 p.m. near the Harlem Meer fishing area in Central Park. An anonymous tip—”
“Moi,” Paul said.
“—led authorities to Moss’s apartment in Brooklyn, where police found evidence implicating him in the murder of Detective Carrera and the other victims. He is being held without bond in the Manhattan Detention Center.”
Paul shut the set off.
He turned and was amused to see Lassiter’s expression was one of pure bewilderment. “I think we don’t need these anymore.” He rose and unhooked the handcuffs. “Just to let you know, though, my lawyer has plenty of evidence implicating you in the crimes, so don’t do anything foolish.”
“No, I’m cool.”
“Good. Now when I decided I wanted you as an assistant I had to make sure somebody else took the fall for the killings. Whom to pick? I’ve never liked reporters very much, and I found Franklyn Moss particularly irritating. So I datamined him. I learned he was quite the fisherman, so I fed Carrera this mumbo jumbo that that was the killer’s hobby.
“Earlier today I convinced Carrera we should go to Central Park, one of the fishing preserves there, to look for clues. When we were alone at the Meer I slit his throat and sawed off his index finger. That’s a lot of work, by the way. Couldn’t you have picked the pinkie? Never mind. Then I went to Moss’s apartment and hid the knife and finger in his garage and car, along with some physical evidence from the other scenes, a pair of Ferragamos I bought yesterday and a packet of those energy bars you like. I left some of Carrera’s blood on the doorstep so the police would have probable cause to get a warrant.”
Paul enjoyed another long
sip of milk.
“The evidence’s circumstantial, but compelling: He drives a BMW, which I told Carrera was his vehicle—because I’d seen it earlier. Public records show he has a lake house in Westchester—which I also told Carrera. And I suggested that the ligature marks were from fishing line, which Moss had plenty of in his garage and basement . . . You used bell wire, right?”
“Um, yes.”
Paul continued, “I also fed the detective this nonsense that the killer probably spent a lot of time keyboarding at a computer—like a blogger would do. So our friend Moss is going away forever. You’re clean.”
Lassiter frowned. “But wouldn’t Carrera have told other officers you gave him the profile? That’d make you a suspect.”
“Good point, Lassiter. But I knew he wouldn’t. Why bring the file to me here in my house to review, rather than invite me downtown to examine it? And why did he come alone, not with his partners? No, he asked my advice privately—so he could steal my ideas and take credit for them himself.” Paul ran his hand through his hair and regarded the killer with a coy smile. “Now, tell me about the assignment—about the person who hired you. I’m really curious about that.”
“Assignment?”
But the feigned surprise didn’t work.
“Please, Lassiter. You’re not a serial killer. I wouldn’t want you if you were—they’re far too capricious. Too driven by emotion.” Paul said the last word as if it were tainted food. “No, you came up with the plan for the multiple murders to cover up your real crime. You’d been hired to murder a particular individual—one of the three victims.”
Lassiter’s mouth was actually gaping open. He slowly pressed his lips back together.
Paul continued, “It was so obvious. There was no sexual component to the killings, which there always is in serial murders. And there’s no psychopathological archetype for taking an index finger trophy—you improvised because you thought it would look suitably spooky. Now, which of the three was the woman you’d been hired to kill?”
The man gave a why-bother shrug. “Rachel Garner. The last one. She was going to blow the whistle on her boss. He runs a hedge fund that’s waist deep in money laundering.”
“Or—alternative spelling—‘waste deep,’ if it needs laundering.” Paul couldn’t help the play on words. “I thought it was something like that.”
Lassiter said, “I’d met the guy in the army. He knew I did a few dirty tricks, and he called me up.”
“So, it was a one-time job?”
“Right.”
“Good. So you can come to work for me.”
Lassiter debated.
Paul leaned forward. “Ah, there’s a lot of carnage out there to perpetrate. Lots of foolish men and women on Wall Street who need to be relieved of some of their gains, ill- or well-gotten. There’re illegal arms sales waiting to be made, and cheating politicians to extort and humans to traffic and terrorists who may hold intellectually indefensible views but have very large bank accounts and are willing to write checks to people like us, who can provide what they need.”
Paul’s eyes narrowed. “And, you know, Lassiter, sometimes you just need to slice a throat or two for the fun of it.”
Lassiter’s eyes fixed on the carpet. After a long moment he whispered, “The silk?”
“Yes?”
“My mother would stuff a silk handkerchief in my mouth when she beat me. To mute the screams, you know.”
“Ah, I see,” Paul replied softly. “I’m sorry. But I can guarantee you plenty of opportunities to get even for that tragedy, Lassiter. So. Do you want the job?”
The killer debated for merely a few seconds. He smiled broadly. “I do, Professor. I sure do.” The men shook hands.
ART IN THE BLOOD
by Laura Caldwell
When the reporter from the Post, a young woman with a garishly severe haircut, tried to tell him that the Gargeau he’d sold last month was a fake, Dekalb swallowed his disgust, took his bone china cup out of her hand and asked her, as politely as possible, to leave his office. Drew Dekalb Van-Werden was his full name, but he preferred Dekalb. And Dekalb did not take well to contradiction or confrontation, certainly not from the Post.
The reporter had gotten an appointment by telling his assistant, a boy named Tad who would now have to be fired, that the Post wanted to do a profile on him. Movers and shakers of the art world, she’d apparently said. “A follow-up to Art in the Blood.”
She had clinched his interest with that comment. The decades-old article in the New Yorker, naming him as the Sherlock Holmes of the art world, was still the favored link on his website. The moniker was one he’d gladly accepted.
But now she wouldn’t get up from his chair, the Victorian wing chair he’d just had refinished.
“Look, Mr. Van Weird,” she said.
“VanWerden.” He said this too quickly, too harshly. “Van Weird” was what they used to call him in Manautaukee, Pennsylvania, the zit of a town where he’d been raised.
“Yes, VanWerden,” she said.
He reminded himself that she was mimicking him on purpose, that she wanted a reaction. The realization calmed him. He would find out what she wanted and get her the hell out. He took a seat at his desk and nodded at her to continue.
“We believe our information is correct,” she said. “What we believe is that Wheels of a Rogue, a painting that you sold for . . .” She stopped talking and leaned forward, her ear cocked in his direction as if he might supply this information.
When he was silent, she sat back and said, “Well, anyway, we believe it’s a forgery.”
He almost laughed. He stood and moved around his desk, forcing her to twist in order to follow him. He stopped at one of the arched windows that overlooked Madison Avenue, one hand on his hip, the other on the walnut window frame.
“Have you talked to the owner of the piece?” He was careful not to say the name of Barbara Baden-Shore—BB as she was called—although they could find out easily enough.
“Not yet. We’ve received tips.”
“I see. And have you viewed the painting?”
He glanced back and saw her squirm in the chair.
“I see,” he said again.
Then he fell silent. They stared at each other. And stared.
“I’m from San Francisco,” she said.
“And . . . ?”
“I’m just saying, we don’t let stories drop.”
He nodded at her, graciously he thought, then he let his own silence stand.
Finally, she muttered something and collected her battered purse from the floor.
He walked across the room and held open the door for her.
“Tad,” he said. “Come here.”
A week later, the vellum envelope was waiting on his chair when he returned from a meeting at Sotheby’s. He was between assistants, so the office had been locked and empty during his absence, yet there was the envelope, sitting shamelessly on his chair where he couldn’t miss it.
Then he saw Binny Moriarty’s handwriting. And he became irritated. No, more than irritated. Binny’s impudence was staggering. He’d loved that about him at one point. It was Binny’s audacity that made him stand out from the other assistants, made Dekalb break his ironclad rule about never dating the help (and the rule about always getting his keys back). Stupid, but then love can be incredibly stupid.
He sliced the flap open with a silver letter opener by Robert Garrard, circa 1867, a gift to himself after he’d sold his first painting more than twenty years ago.
Inside was a piece of filmy vellum paper in a hideous sea-green color. Binny’s sharp, scratchy scribble covered the page.
Dear Dekalb,
I have the Gargeau.
It’s a little piece of you, I guess you could say, which was all I ever wanted.
Au revoir,
Binny
Dekalb dropped the letter with a quick flick of his hand as if it were a used tissue. It fluttered instead of sinking out
of sight the way he’d hoped. Finally, it came to rest on his tulipwood marquetry desk, right on top of a pile of invitations to lunches and cocktail parties and gallery openings. He’d been trying to ignore those invitations. Without an assistant, he’d have to respond to all of them himself, a task he relished with as much enthusiasm as picking up cigarettes in the Vietnamese grocery. It struck him now that if Binny was telling the truth, he’d never get another one of those pathetic invitations again.
He snatched the letter off his desk, appalled at the way his hand trembled. With the other hand, he plucked a cigarette from the black lacquer box on his desk and lit it. After a few deep, lung-filling drags, he read the letter again, then again. Binny had the Gargeau? The real one? Binny must be lying—a sophomoric grab for attention, that was all. But then what about that reporter from the Post? Coincidence?
That damned Binny.
“It’s short for Benjamin,” he’d said the first day when he walked into Dekalb’s office.
He was in his late twenties, not a smooth-faced, backpack-carrying kid like the other boys and girls who usually applied for the position. He wore black scuffed loafers—Armani rip-offs, Dekalb could tell—and a black wool blazer. His hair was black, too, blue-black and curly. His eyes, though, were a deep, jeweled green. One of his front teeth was just barely crooked, like a canvas hanging an eighth of an inch too low on one side.
They’d shaken hands, and Binny sank into the Victorian wing chair, crossing a leg so that one cheap shoe rested on his knee.
“You say that Binny is short for Benjamin,” Dekalb said, “but it’s your last name, Moriarty, I’m curious about.”
After the New Yorker anointed him the Holmes of art forgery, discussing his ability to suss out fakes (at least three confirmed at that point), he’d gone back and reread many of the Holmes stories. And he’d always enjoyed the stories with Professor Moriarty, the great nemesis to Holmes. There was something about the way Holmes was thought to have been dead, outwitted by Professor Moriarty, only to later be resurrected.
In the Company of Sherlock Holmes Page 11
