Not exactly the kind of party Amanda Lowe had in mind. One more disappointment. But then, most things were.
Why was that?
Here she was, one of the hottest art dealers in the hottest art city in the hottest art market representing a dozen of the hottest young artists—well, eight out of twelve (and those other four wouldn’t be around much longer), and still, she felt . . . what? Unfulfilled? Depressed? Lonely? Maybe all three.
How could that be? She was taking that damn Zoloft religiously. But still, there was that low-level malaise, a kind of ennui that seemed to ruin everything.
Everything except a good sale. Now that got her going. Could even make her happy. For a while. Like the other day, selling two WLK Hand paintings to that German couple, sight unseen, by telling them there was a waiting list for the work, when there wasn’t. If there was one thing Amanda Lowe knew, it was how to create a market. She thought she could sell just about anything.
So, why, tonight, after a totally hip party, a private room, no less, in the grooviest Meat Market watering hole, with all her little art stars and art collectors surrounding her, and a few wanna-bes to kiss her ass, did Amanda Lowe feel so bad?
It was not just that it was her forty-seventh birthday and she was going home alone. Hell, if she’d wanted to get laid she could always find some hungry young artist-on-the-make more than willing to come home with her. No, that wasn’t it. So what was it?
Thirteenth Street was fairly deserted, just a few twenty-somethings at the far end of the street, laughing. Amanda Lowe instantly detested them—for their youth, the beauty she supposed they possessed, their lives stretching ahead of them filled with so much promise. She wanted to call out: You’ll see. It will all turn to shit! But she just looked away, hurried down the dark street, the whole time holding her breath. When, she wondered, will those awful butchers and wholesale meat purveyors be pushed out of the neighborhood by the high rents—and take their stink with them? Not soon enough for her.
Though it was hardly cold, a shiver coiled its way through Amanda Lowe’s emaciated body, as though, for a moment, something had passed through her. A spirit, or . . . ? She pulled her black leather Prada car coat tighter, hugged her thin arms around her bony torso, quickened her step.
The metal gate, which guarded the huge green-tinted glass fronting her gallery, was down for the night. It made her sad. As though the only thing she cared about—her art business—was in jail, caged.
Inside, she wrestled with the old freight elevator—one of the minuses to owning an entire building by herself—finally getting it almost level with her new, wide-paneled oak floor.
She stepped in. Flicked a switch. Cool halogen lights illuminated the stark four-thousand-square-foot space she shared only with one Siamese cat that bore an uncanny resemblance to its mistress. She checked her Piaget watch. Ten-fifteen. At least she was home early.
Back in her tiny office, Kate was following Mead’s order—concentrating as though her mother were alive, and the woman’s life depended on it. The invention warmed her, actually propelled her.
So far, Slattery and Brown had turned up a half dozen unidentified bodies. But only one with a connection to the Kienholz picture—an apparently illegal abortion gone wrong, the girl dumped at a landfill on Staten Island. But there was no ritual there. None of the others had anything at all that might suggest the work of the death artist.
Kate had had the Kienholz picture enlarged two hundred percent, could now read the clock and calendar added to the artwork clearly, could see every strand of that lock of hair. But even two-dimensionally—knowing that it was actually Elena’s hair—it was enough to make Kate cringe.
She stared at the image. How should she think about this one? There was no crime scene photo to compare it with.
She had had the large coffee-table book on the work of Ed Kienholz delivered to the station house, and now flipped pages until she found the piece she was looking for.
The Birthday, 1964. Tableau. 84 x 120 x 60 inches.
Mannequin, Lucite, gynecologist’s examination table,
suitcase, clothing, paper, fiberglass, paint, polyester
resin.
She gazed at the picture in the book, then back at the enlargement.
Could those crossed-out dates—or the circled ones—be someone’s birthday? Maybe. But whose? And what about the card, the joker, which was practically hidden in the pattern of the black and white floor tiles?
Kate just didn’t know.
Had Damien Trip left this to drive her crazy? If so, it was working. But would Trip have sent her a teaser when he had just been interrogated, when he was clearly under suspicion?
Kate stared at the joker. Maybe Brown was right, that it was a symbol for the killer himself, that he saw himself as a joker, playing with her, with the cops.
But what else?
Checkerboard floors? Kate thought a moment. Flemish paintings almost always had checkerboard floors. What else did they have? Symbols. Everything in a Flemish painting was standing in for something else. So what could a joker be?
A jester? A comedian?
No. Something to do with art.
A joker? A card?
Neither of those made any sense. What else?
A deck of cards? Fifty-two. Numbers. Pictures. Suits. Betting. Dealing.
She thought about the victims: Elena. Pruitt. Ethan Stein.
Performance artist. Museum president. Minimal painter.
Was the guy breaking down the art world? Picking off representatives? Painter. Performer . . . Kate stared at the reproductions. A card. Dealing. A dealer. An art dealer!
Of course. It had to be. Kate’s adrenaline was pumping about as fast as her frustration was mounting. Which art dealer? And how to find out?
Back to the enlargement. It was here. Somewhere. Kate knew it. Felt it. The guy was more than playing with her. He was testing her. The clock. The calendar. Something in there.
But what?
Her mind was clicking away, but she just couldn’t get at it.
She slammed the Kienholz book shut.
There was not much time left—and someone was in for a very unpleasant birthday present.
“The piece is called The Birthday.” Kate paced, her low heels click-clacking on the conference room’s hard cement floor. “He’s got to be indicating someone’s birthday.”
“Like whose?” Mead sucked his teeth.
“An art dealer’s. He’s not just making art. He’s choosing his victims as representatives of the art world: Elena Solana’s the performance artist, Pruitt’s the museum man, Stein’s the traditional-type painter.”
“You call white paintings traditional?” said Slattery.
“Nowadays, if you paint, you’re traditional,” said Kate.
Mead sighed heavily. “But how can we possibly get the birthdays of hundreds of art dealers in New York?”
“It’d be in their bios.” Kate thought a second. “We could check Who’s Who in American Art. Of course, that would be thousands to go through, and not everyone includes their birthdays—especially the women.”
“Come on, people.” Mead tugged at his bow tie. “I don’t want to lose another vic to this guy.”
“It’s all in here.” Kate tapped the reproduction. “In the picture. Everything’s a visual clue.”
“Okay,” said Slattery. “So what do the circled dates mean?”
“I’ve been trying to figure that out. If it’s not the date of the crime—and I don’t think it is, since both of those dates have passed—then what else?”
“A statistic?” said Brown.
“Or numerology?” Slattery offered.
“I don’t think so,” said Kate. “The guy seems to be more specific than that. What numbers are specific?”
“Phone numbers,” said Brown.
“Not enough for a phone number.” Kate’s foot was tapping out a nervous tune on the concrete floor. “The tenth and the thirteenth?”
“Ten-thirteen,” said Slattery. “The time of the murder.”
“I’d stick with eleven,” said Kate, checking her watch.
So did Mead. “Shit. It’s ten-fifty, people.”
“Wait a second. What about an address?” Kate’s foot stopped tapping. “Tenth Street. Thirteenth Street? No. Wait. Thirteenth Street and Tenth Avenue. The Meat Market. Chelsea. Of course. A gallery. That makes sense if he’s going to do an art dealer.” She quick-turned to Mead. “Randy. You’ve got to get cars out to Thirteenth and Tenth Avenue—to every gallery along the street. ASAP.” Then to Slattery. “Maureen, you still have that Gallery Guide?”
Maureen had already gotten it out, ran her finger along the Chelsea street map. “There are four—no, five—galleries along Thirteenth.”
“Any on Tenth Avenue at Thirteenth?”
“Uh . . . Just a restaurant.”
“Go back to Thirteenth Street. The Kienholz piece is about a woman’s violation. So we’re most likely looking for a woman gallery dealer.”
Slattery read through the listing. “Gallery 505—could be either sex. Valerie Kennedy Gallery—that’s one. Art Resource International—maybe. Amanda Lowe Gallery—for sure.”
Mead already had the cellular to his ear, barking instructions. “Six cars already on the way,” he said, clicking off. “Ambulance, too.”
“Get someone to contact those dealers ASAP,” said Kate. “The galleries are probably closed, so get home numbers and addresses.”
“Get someone to go on-line,” Brown barked at a uniform. “Of those galleries, see who might be having a birthday, and call us en route.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Kate.
“All right,” said Mead. “Go with Slattery—and let her drive.”
Amanda Lowe has barely gotten her Prada jacket off when he grabs her, whispers, “Happy birthday,” one hand around her throat, the other pressing a rag soaked with some awful-smelling chemical into her nose and mouth.
The ambulance had shut off its siren, but the cop cars’ beacons were still streaking blips of stark light across Thirteenth Street.
The young uniformed cop looked shaken, his face gray-green, as if he was going to be sick. “She’s in there. Second floor. Above the gallery.”
“You found her?” asked Brown.
“Me and Diaz.” He nodded to another uniform, sitting on the stairs in front of the Amanda Lowe Gallery. “A couple of detectives are up there now.” He bit his lip, seemed close to tears. Brown patted the guy’s shoulder as he headed into the building.
The scene was so surreal Kate could barely take it in.
Amanda Lowe was strapped onto her sleek dining room table. Six long knives in her belly. Handles jutting out exactly like the Lucite cylinders of the Kienholz piece. Blood on the table, dripping onto the rug—unctuous, oily water-falls. Her coat had been hung on the wall beside the table, just as in the reproduction. There was even a suitcase on the floor.
A detective was crouched beside the scene. He turned, nodded acknowledgment at Mead, said, “Look at this.”
Mead took a step closer. Kate peered over his shoulder.
Just beside the suitcase, on the pale rug, ragged, shaky lettering.
Kate looked more closely. It was writing, in blood:
DEATH ARTIST
“Jesus,” said Brown. “He likes the name.”
“Yes,” said Kate. “And now he’s signing his work.”