The Death Artist (46 page)

“He’s stoned, McKinnon,” said Mead.

“Clearly,” said Kate. “And he doesn’t know what I’m talking about either.” She patted Henry’s shoulder. “Do you, Henry?”

Henry smiled at her.

“Sorry, fellas.” Kate shook her head. “No matter how much you’d like it to be him, it’s just
not
.”

“So then how’d he get the pictures of Solana?” Mead asked.

Kate thought a minute. “Mrs. Prawsinsky said she saw a black man at Solana’s the night of the murder, and I believe she was right. It was probably Henry. He had a thing for the girl, for Christ’s sake. But that doesn’t make him our killer.” She leveled a look at Mitch Freeman, unable to hide her disappointment. “Come on, Mitch. You know this isn’t our man.”

Freeman sighed.

Kate was tired, about to go home, when Brown slapped the collage onto her desk. “No postage. Nothing. According to the desk cop, some street kid dropped it by. It was given to him by another street kid–who we can’t locate.”

“Jesus.” Kate stared at it. “Another one.”

“What’s it mean?”

“It means the death artist is still out there.” Kate studied the image, thought a minute. “Okay. You’ve basically got two images put together here. One of a black man. The other, a landscape. The figure is easy. It’s a Basquiat.”

“A what?”

“Jean-Michel Basquiat. An eighties hotshot artist. Over-dosed on heroin before he hit thirty. I’m pretty sure what you’re looking at is one of his self-portraits.”

“And the landscape?”

“That’s easy. Frederic Church. He was part of the Hudson River school. A nineteenth-century group of landscape painters. I’d say this is a view of the Hudson.”

“Wait a minute,” said Brown. “You’ve got a self-portrait of a black guy, and a river scene. It
does
sound like Henry Handley.”

“But it’s not,” said Kate. She was sure of it.

Willie had actually started to enjoy his walk. He picked up his pace, weaved in between bikers and Rollerbladers that filled the narrow path between the highway and river, every-one taking advantage of the warm night.

At the Christopher Street Pier, a scene out of
The Rite of Spring
–an orgy of men, displaying muscled physiques, strolling back and forth on the groaning planks of the old jetty. Willie took it in, thought maybe he should spend a bit more time at the gym. But by the next pier, or what remained of it–a cross-hatching of planks, a few upright posts over murky green water–there were no more beautiful men, just homeless ones passing a bottle, and the thought of pumping iron, of washboard abs, just seemed absurd.

Willie leaned against the fence, stared at a bunch of moss-covered wooden pilings jutting out of the river. They reminded him of Venice–minus the glamour or decadent beauty–and of his time spent with Charlie Kent, who had stood him up only yesterday and was not returning his calls. Apparently, she had gotten what she wanted from him–his painting.

He looked across at the New Jersey coastline, the high-rise apartment buildings on the Palisades, a series of stark monoliths against a darkening sky.

Ahead, a few construction sites had shut down for the day; just beyond them, what appeared to be an old docking building built out over the river.

Willie checked his bearings. He had just passed Jane Street.

That must be the place.

Mead had his head cupped in his hands, elbows on the conference table. “Henry Handley’s in lockup,” he said, without much enthusiasm. “Just until we know for sure.”

Mitch Freeman sat across from him, the two robots still on either side of him.

Clare Tapell’s arms were folded tight across her chest. “Okay,” she said. “So, I understand it’s
not
Henry Handley. Who, then?”

Kate handed Tapell, Mead, and Freeman copies she’d had made of the death artist’s latest message–the cutout black man pasted on top of a river view, while she and Brown leaned over the original.

“Spell it out for me, Kate.
Please
.” Tapell’s dark eyes regarded Kate’s with a hint of desperation. “I just came from the mayor’s office.” She expelled a breath, shook her head. “Don’t ask.”

“I’ve looked up the paintings to be absolutely certain,” said Kate. “The painted scene is definitely Frederic Church. It’s a view from Olana, the artist’s home near Hudson, New York, painted around 1879, just before the artist’s arthritis made it nearly impossible for him to paint at all.”

“What’s that tell us?” Freeman asked.

“I’d say,
location
,” said Kate. “Hudson being the clue–as in Hudson River. I think that’s mainly what it’s about. Maybe there’s more, but if so, I’m not getting it. Not yet.” She tapped the figure, which was almost totally black–big hands, spiky hair, white ovals for eyes, a checkerboard mouth. The death artist had added a big red knife, crayoned on top of the black figure, stabbed into its chest. “This is a Basquiat painting, for sure. From 1982. It’s a self-portrait, but not a likeness,” said Kate. “I’ve seen plenty of photos of Jean-Michel Basquiat, and this looks nothing like him.” She thought for a minute. “I guess it’s a symbol of generic black youth. It could be any kid with dreadlocks.” It only took a moment for the words to sink in:
Any kid with dreadlocks.

“Oh my God!” She got her cellular to her ear.

“What is it?” asked Tapell.
“What?”

“Wait a minute.” Kate put one hand up to quiet her, the other pressed the phone to her ear. She hit her autodial. “Damn. A machine.
Damn
.” She clicked off.

They were all waiting–Mead, Tapell, Brown, Freeman, even the robots–hanging on her words.

“Willie,”
said Kate. “Willie Handley.” She put her hand up again, hit that autodial again, this time left a message: “Willie. This is Kate. If you get this message, I want you to call me ASAP. You hear me,
right
away? Do
not
go anywhere, Willie.” She snapped her phone shut, drew a breath. “I think the death artist has targeted Willie Handley.”

“Why?” asked Brown.

Kate pushed her hair behind her ears. “To get to me,” she said. “Look, the guy’s been on my tail from the beginning. Getting closer and closer. He wants to get to me, and now he’s figured out a sure way to do it–through someone I love.” The words rippled through her. She shuddered. “But Willie’s just the bait. It’s
me
he wants.” Kate snatched up the death artist’s collage. “It’s all here. Simple. Clear. Just what I asked for. The Hudson River. A young black man. That’s got to be his next victim.” Kate took a breath. “It was supposed to be me in Venice, remember?
My
face on the dead saint. But Slattery got in the way. Now he’s calling me, beckoning me to him. This is a fucking invitation. It
has
to be.” Kate stared at the picture. She had a sense of him imagining this very scene–her figuring out his little preparatory sketch, the terror she would feel at losing Willie. Oh yes, he knew her, all right. But she knew him, too. “He must have a place by the river.”

“His safe house,” said Freeman.

Kate tried calling Willie one more time. Still no answer. She turned to Mead. “Get a car out to Willie’s place–in case he comes back. Don’t let him leave.” She looked back at the collage. “There’s no indication of time on this picture. We’ve got to get moving.”

“Are you sure?” asked Tapell. “About the safe house on the Hudson, I mean?”

Kate looked again. “I can’t swear to it, Clare. But I
feel
it. In my gut. This is where he is. Where he plans his work.”

Freeman nodded.

Kate regarded the image again. “And he’s waiting for me.”

Tapell eyed her gravely. “Well, you’ve been right so far.” She got the phone to her ear.

“Suppose he hasn’t even got Willie Handley?” said Mead.

“Well, then, it’s time I met him, no matter what.” Kate got her Glock, checked her ammo. “It’s an opportunity, Randy, to get him–whether he’s got Willie, or–”

“I want you alive, McKinnon.”

“Me, too,” said Kate, shoving the Glock into her jacket pocket. She got her .38, too, hiked up her pant leg, strapped it to her ankle.

“I’ve got to let the Bureau know what’s going on,” said Freeman.

Tapell nodded as he cut out of the room, the two robots on his heels.

Tapell worked two phones. Mead snapped orders at a couple of uniforms.

Ten minutes later, they laid it out.

“The SWAT team is being assembled,” said Tapell. “But they need about forty-five minutes to mobilize.”

“Patrol is putting two dozen cars at our disposal,” said Mead. “Half the cars will start at Battery Park and work up. The others will be starting north and meet up with them.”

Freeman called in to say that the Bureau wanted agents in every car.

“Let’s get a helicopter,” said Brown. “To light up the riverfront, move up and down with the cars.”

Tapell made the call.

“I can’t wait,” Kate said to Brown. “I’m going.”

“You don’t know where to start,” said Mead.

“Let me call Ortega, in Housing,” said Brown.

Kate checked her watch. “It’s too late. It’s long closed.” She was getting impatient. She couldn’t wait much longer.

“I can call him at home,” said Brown, the phone already to his ear.

“The chopper will be taking off from the Thirty-fourth Street heliport in twenty-five minutes,” said Tapell.

Kate paced to one end of the room and back.

Tapell was back on the phone, mobilizing the troops.

“Ortega says there’s a computer map of the entire river-front,” said Brown, his phone in hand. “It can tell us which buildings are new, which are old, anything under construction.” He grabbed hold of a rookie who had just walked into the conference room. “You must be able to work this thing.” He maneuvered the rookie into a chair in front of a computer, handed him the phone. “Talk to Ortega.”

A few minutes later, the rookie printed out a map.

“It’s not much,” said Kate.

“It’s something. At least we know that such and such”–Brown stabbed a finger at the map–“is a sewage dump. He wouldn’t be there.”

“Come on,” said Kate. “We’ll take your Pinto.”

“The cars from Patrol will be taking off any minute,” said Mead. He shouted after them: “You find anything–
anything
–you call for backup. You hear me?”

Just ahead, that great hulking warehouse, the old docking building, hovered, a black cube against a pewter sky. He checked his watch. Eight P.M. He was exactly on time.

Could this possibly be the place? The door, thick wood and steel-edged, was slightly ajar. Willie leaned into it with his shoulder. It groaned open.

Inside, it was damp and cold; enormous, like a gymnasium. Thirty-foot-high ceilings with a few patches of sky streaking through cracks; four or five metal spotlights clipped onto thick wooden beams provided a minimum of light. Across the room, drawings and photos were pinned to the wall; in the center was a large metal worktable strewn with cut-up images, scissors, X-Acto knives, glue.

“How do you like it?” The words came from behind him, echoed in every direction.

Willie spun around. “Oh, you’re here. Good. I was beginning to wonder what this place was.”

“A great studio, no? During the day the light is pure gold.”

Willie took a few steps forward. “But it’s fucking cold, man. What does he do for heat?”

“Artists have worked under poor conditions for centuries. It’s only recently–your generation–that’s so spoiled.”

“Me
? Like the projects where I grew up had swimming pools and tennis courts?” Willie laughed.

“Boo-hoo. Everyone’s always whining about their sad childhood.” He can feel the separation beginning, the fugue state that comes over him when he makes his work. But he’s excited, too. He’s never had a living artist in his studio.

A clamoring from above. Willie looked up. A small flock of pigeons, batting their wings.

“A bunch of them have made a nest up there. Sweet, isn’t it?”

“Reminds me of Venice,” said Willie. He took a few steps in. The drawings on the wall were still fuzzy, indistinct. But when he moved in for a closer look, he stopped short. “What the–” Willie’s eyes scanned the pitted wall, the hideous photographs–Ethan Stein, Amanda Lowe, snapshots of Elena.

He gasped.

Brown moved the Pinto so slowly that traffic was backing up behind them, horns blaring. They could put the beacon on the roof, but didn’t want to announce themselves in the event that they actually found the place.

Kate had both the housing map of the riverfront and the death artist’s collage in her lap. She had tried calling Willie four or five times, but without luck.
Please, God. Just let him be out somewhere–anywhere but here.
But she had that queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach–the one she got when she knew something had gone wrong.

The radio crackled to life. “Brown. McKinnon.”

Kate snatched up the receiver. It was Mead.

“Where are you?”

“We just started,” she said. “Down around South Ferry. I can’t talk now, Randy. We’ve got to start looking.”

“Patrol cars will be cruising into action any minute,” he said. “And the Bureau has decided to add a few cars of their own.”

“Fine,” said Kate. She clicked off, her frustration mounting even before they’d actually started their search. “Jesus, we could be doing this all night, Floyd. What do we look for?”

“Check the map,” said Brown.

“Right.” Kate took a breath, tried to calm herself, dragged the map closer. “According to this, there are a few old buildings just below the Holland Tunnel that could be habitable–slightly. Then, some warehouses, and a couple of old docking houses slated for demolition from the West Village up to where the Chelsea Piers start. A few more in the West Thirties.” She stared out the window, at the waterfront going dark, a thought taking shape. “Lights,” she said. “We should be looking for lights. If the buildings are supposed to be abandoned, they’d be dark.”