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Though it’d been another night of interrupted sleep, I got up early, feeling refreshed. Maybe it was the fact that Baker was in custody. My morning ritual of following Ricky Stephens to Jack Todd Ford took more time than usual because Elliot the Slim was late. From there, I hit the gym then went to my office. I worked on the story I would use when I called to set up a meeting with Alden Whitt, the unscrupulous art dealer. I would claim my fictional client, a stinking-rich collector, wished to remain anonymous for obvious reasons. I was sure Whitt could appreciate that, and I would make it clear there would be more business coming Whitt’s way. I would have to come up with a creative way of telling him what my fictional boss was looking for so Whitt would let me know if he got wind of The Floating Ballerina.
That afternoon as I sat at my desk, I heard a low chuckle from my door and looked up to a sight that froze me.
Baker leaned against the jamb, sunglasses hiding his eyes. “Guess who got released, sweetheart?”
My first instinct was to grab the phone and call 9-1-1, but like a confrontation with a rattlesnake, I didn’t want to move suddenly. “You’re out?”
“A stupid question. And one even stupider is, do you really think I’m Michelangelo?” He wasn’t angry with his question but sounded like he’d pity me if I answered yes.
“I think...” I paused, figuring how to express it. “There are things that indicate that you needed to be—vetted.”
“Vetted, huh? Well, there are some things you should know,” he said, stepping inside.
“What kind of things?”
“That Ortega found alibis for me.”
“Well, that’s good,” I said, not sure I believed him.
“And there’s one more tidbit that proves my innocence.”
“What’s that?”
Baker used a finger to lower the sunglasses down his nose so he could peer at me over them. “Michelangelo killed again while I was in lockup.”
Ortega walked in behind Baker.
“Is that true?” I asked Ortega. “Michelangelo killed again?”
“It’s true. I came to get you.” Ortega looked from me to Baker. “And to tell you about—well—Baker gave you the good news.”
Baker crossed the room and leaned onto my desk. “I go to your house and spend hours watching it, waiting to see if Michelangelo shows up again, and all the while, you think I’m the psycho. Then you get my partner thinking it’s me—”
“I didn’t think it was you,” Ortega said in a way that told me they’d been down this road before. “But some things indicated—”
“Yeah, well, fuck you.” Baker started for the door then stopped long enough to add, “Fuck both of you.”
I got up and pulled aside drapes from the window, and we watched him stride through the parking lot, get in a car, and drive off.
“Where’s he going?” I asked.
“It’s best we investigate separately for a while. He’s going to check out a bar our victim was at a few nights ago.”
Ortega invited me to ride with him over to the latest crime scene, and he gave me the lowdown as he drove to San Marco’s little shipping district made up of docks, warehouses, processing centers, and shipping businesses.
“Should I apologize to Baker?” I asked.
“Only if you want a fuck you in return,” Ortega said.
“So, is the redhead in the photo the victim?”
“Looks like it. Beverly Raine, in her twenties, owns Raine or Shine Antiques.”
“Shit. Any idea as to what happened?”
“We may have gotten lucky. The other night, she met a girlfriend for drinks at a little neighborhood dive called Coyote Lick. Her friend had recently separated from her husband, and they were out commiserating over the rotten state of crappy-ass men.”
“That’s what she said?”
“That’s my translation. Anyway, a half hour or so before last call, she says they were harassed by a crazy guy claiming to be an artist who wanted to paint Beverly in the nude.”
“No shit,” I said.
“They got into it with the guy, and the bartender threw him out. That’s the last they saw him. I’m thinking he waited for them outside the bar and followed Beverly home, which happens to be a little apartment over her antiques shop. It’s an old converted gas station. Her friend saw the photo Michelangelo texted you on the morning news shows, thought it resembled her friend, went to her apartment, and found her body.”
“Did she give you a description of the man?”
Ortega shrugged. “They’d been drinking, the lighting was low, so not a great one. Average build, though in good shape. Brown hair. Crazy eyes. Guy was older than them, but she couldn’t say by how much. She’s going to work with a sketch artist. We’ll see if that helps.”
“Was the victim—Beverly, was she posed?” I asked.
“Apparently. I haven’t been there yet, but I’ve been warned to prepare myself. Guess that goes for you too.”
We got to the industrial area near the shipping docks, and Ortega maneuvered through the warehouses to a corner lot and Raine or Shine Antiques. The old gas station building had been painted in bright pastels. What looked like a hanging sign from an old English pub had been repainted with the name of the business. The shop was surrounded by all the marked cars and vans that indicate a crime scene.
Ortega parked, and we went around the corner to a staircase that led up to her apartment. At the top of the stairs, we ran into Reuben Busby, the crime scene guy.
“Ah, hello, Ms. Norwood.” He smiled like he’d run into me at the supermarket, not at a murder scene.
“Mr. Busby.”
“What do we have?” Ortega asked.
“Definitely Michelangelo. But maybe it’s best that you see it for yourself. I’ll fill you in on what I know later.” Busby pointed down a short dark hallway to an open door.
I followed Ortega, and when he stopped at the door and muttered something in Spanish, I reconsidered going in. He disappeared across the threshold, and I followed.
“My God,” I whispered.
The victim was displayed to look as if she were lying on her right side. In reality, she’d been mounted like a hunting trophy on the wall above the headboard of the bed. Long nails and spikes held her in place. Her head rested on her right arm as it extended out, pinned in place by nails through her palm, wrist, and forearm near her elbow. Her red hair collected on the left side of her head and neck, bunched on her right arm, and hung down in places. Her open eyes stared dully. Her mouth was half open, and her tongue protruded an inch. I could see where Michelangelo had bitten her breast and thigh.
A spike hammered through her left shoulder helped to hold her against the wall. Her stomach and sternum were impaled by two spikes. The flesh around them sagged as gravity worked against the hardware. Four more pierced her biceps and each thigh. Her skin puckered in around each spike, dried blood lined down from each. Her feet were nailed in place. No matter where I looked, my gaze always ventured back to Beverly’s dead eyes. His masterpiece was framed with lengths of two-by-fours. A nail-gun on the floor by the bed, a hammer next to it. Coils of long nails lay unwound on both sides of the bed, along with more than a dozen long metal spikes.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled and left the room. In the hallway, I rested my forehead against the wall, shutting my eyes.
A couple of minutes later, Ortega followed me out. “We think he got the wood and tools from a backroom downstairs.” He pointed into the doorway. “That mess in there, it mean anything to you?”
I swallowed and shook my head. “I don’t recognize it as any sculpture or statue. That doesn’t mean it’s not. Considering that rudimentary frame around the body, he may have found his inspiration with a painting. If you give me a ride back to my office, I’ll go online and see if I can find the piece Michelangelo was replicating.”
“I have to stay, but I’ll get a uniform to run you back.”
I sighed. “Yeah, but I better get a photo for comparison.” I stepped back into the doorway and felt like a ghoul as I used my phone to photograph Beverly Raine. Because of my shaking hands, it took several attempts to get a clear picture.
The police officer who drove me was a rookie. I felt sorry for him. He’d seen the body and was ready to barf. I talked to him, trying to take his mind off what he’d seen. He caught on pretty quickly, and we chatted about a number of things, none of which had to do with murder.
I got out and went around to the driver’s-side window. “Thanks for the lift.”
“No problem.” A second later, he looked sick again. “Guess I better get back to the crime scene.”
I went into my office, logged on, and searched for a sculptural match to the supine pose Michelangelo had created with Beverly Raine. Thinking about the frame around the corpse, I expanded my search to include paintings. Still, nothing was close, so I googled “art reclining nude woman” and came up with plenty of paintings and photos. After some time without a match, I switched up and utilized the word “masterpiece” in my parameters. From there, I went through various centuries, as well as art styles. There was no shortage of reclining naked women, but none matched the pose on the wall.
I was so focused on my laptop monitor that I was startled at the sound of the door opening. “Norwood.”
I groaned. “Hello, Detective Baker.”
I didn’t like his grin. Ortega followed him in, looking as though he’d been at the receiving end of a verbal lashing.
Baker leaned on my desk. “You”—he pointed at me—“and you”—he pointed at Ortega—“are still a couple of assholes. But I have to work with him. I no longer have to work with you.” His finger came my way again. “But I came by to gloat. While you’re hard at work trying to find the artwork that Michelangelo based his latest killing on, I have already found it.”
“Really? What is it?”
“I’m not going to tell you. However, I’ll show you.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Ortega said. “Just tell her. The painting is over the—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Baker said. “You want to come and see it with your own eyes, or not?”
“Yeah.” I closed my laptop and followed them outdoors.
I didn’t want to close myself up in a car with a pissed-off Baker, so I said I would follow them. When I realized we were heading in the direction of the shipping district, I thought we were returning to Beverly Raine’s apartment, but Ortega’s car turned right at one intersection with a blinking traffic light where we should have made a left to get to the crime scene. About a block from one of the big dock facilities, he pulled into the parking lot of Coyote Lick—the bar where Beverly and her friend had been. It was a small place set in the first floor of a much larger building.
After parking, I walked up to Baker and Ortega. “Didn’t you say the FBI would take over after the third murder?”
“And that’s gonna happen any minute,” Baker said. “So let’s not waste time.”
I almost pointed out that his gloating was wasting time, but considering his current temperament, I kept quiet. He led us through twin glass doors covered on the inside with thick purple curtains. The bar smells were strong. Underneath the scent of beer and bar snacks, I caught a whiff that indicated plumbing issues. A dozen or so people were scattered along the bar and sitting in booths. David Allan Coe was belting, “You Never Even Called Me by My Name,” from an old jukebox. The bar itself was long, but the painting behind it caught my attention.
“Ohhh,” I said.
“Damn straight,” Baker said.
The life-sized nude painting was definitely not a classic, but in the pinup art genre. The painter had been talented and laid the subject horizontally in the position that had inspired Michelangelo. I brought up the photo of Beverly Raine on her wall. Beverly and the nude were the same pose, except no cow skull was blocking Beverly’s crotch.
“His attention to detail is impressive,” I said.
Both detectives looked at me as if waiting for me to continue.
“The way her right arm extends and how the hand bends, it’s as close to a perfect match as possible. How the left leg is bent with that knee above the right knee. He couldn’t do anything about gravity when it came to her hair, but even that’s close.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a ‘come fuck me’ expression.” Baker pointed at the painting. He planted his index finger on the screen of my phone. “That expression says, ‘I’m dead.’”
“The detail is still amazing,” I said.
“He could have photographed it and studied it at the crime scene,” Ortega said.
“Anyone here see anything?” I asked.
“Yeah, we’ve got some witnesses,” Ortega said. “You can sit in while we question the bartender.”
“Not that you’re actively involved in the case or anything,” Baker grumbled.
We each sat on a barstool, and Baker rapped the bar with his knuckles, getting the bartender’s attention.
He ambled over.
Baker referred to a small notepad then asked, “Lucky?”
The bartender shrugged. “That’s what they call me.”
“Lucky the bartender,” Baker said. “That’s almost as original as Lou the bartender or Sal the bartender.”
“I’ve already answered questions for two other cops,” Lucky said.
“Good, then you’re nice and polished and won’t have trouble answering ours,” Baker said.
Lucky sneered and started to say something, but Ortega interrupted. “Don’t. It won’t do anything other than escalate a pissing match, and no matter how far it goes, we’ll win. So if you don’t want us dragging you to the station, play nice.”
After a few seconds, Lucky nodded. “Sorry. Beverly was a regular. A nice person.”
Baker still wore his asshole expression, and Ortega didn’t say anything, so I said, “We’re sorry too. But these two gentlemen are the lead detectives on the case and are the best chance of catching your friend’s killer.” Until the FBI gets involved.
Lucky nodded, and Ortega referred to a small notebook of his own. “So Beverly Raine came in with her friend Tonya Abraham.”
“Yeah. It was sometime after eleven.”
“There was a problem with a guy. What time did the guy come in?” Baker asked.
“An hour or so later, I guess.”
“Drunk?” Baker asked.
“Nah, I can recognize drunk. He might have been on something, though.” He motioned over his shoulder with a thumb at the painting. “I mean, he came in and stared at that, eyes wide, mouth open, without moving for a good two or three minutes. It was weird, like he was hypnotized. Anyway, he drank most of a beer then stared at Beverly and Tonya. I mean, turned on the barstool and stared, nothing subtle about it, ya know? He went over to them, and I knew there’d be trouble. He said something crude, they started shouting, and I threw his ass out.”
“Ever see him before?” Baker asked.
“Nope.”
“Give me a description,” Baker said.
“Good-looking if you were a lady. Smaller than me, so I guess a medium build.”
“And?” Baker said.
“And I don’t know. When I’m back here, I’m working, not studying what people look like.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Jeans, I think. Long-sleeve shirt. That’s about all I got.”
“Anything about him stand out?” Ortega asked.
Lucky considered the question. “Had a bandage on his right arm, a little up from his wrist.”
“Thought you said he wore a long-sleeved shirt?” Baker said.
“Yeah, but the sleeves were rolled up.”
“A bandage? Like a Band-Aid?” Baker asked.
“No. It was that gauze stuff, wrapped around his arm.” Lucky pointed at his forearm. “Could see a little bit of blood coming through.”
“You noticed him staring at the painting,” Ortega said.
“That was just weird. Couldn’t help but notice.”
“You threw him out.”
“I grabbed him and shoved him out the door. I wasn’t memorizing his looks.”
“How about his hair?” I asked.
“Dark brown, I think, but lights in here are low.”
“Age?” Baker asked.
Lucky worked at a smudge on the bar top with a towel. “Hard to say. If I had to guess, I’d say in his forties or fifties.”
“Forties or fifties,” Baker said, like it wasn’t any help at all.
“Could’ve been older.” Lucky pursed his lips. “Could’ve been younger.”
“When did the women leave?” Ortega asked.
“Last call.”
“Notice anything out of the ordinary after they left?” I asked.
“Hang on.” Lucky got fresh beer for patrons down the bar, poured a draft for a newcomer, then came back. “No, nothing out of the ordinary.”
The interview was winding down, so I asked, “I’m curious. Why is the bar called Coyote Lick?”
“Because of what it is,” Lucky answered.
“What’s a coyote lick?”
“His balls, mostly.” Lucky shrugged. “It’s funny under other circumstances.”
Ortega said, “We’d like to get an artist in here and help you come up with a sketch of the guy. That all right?”
“Sure, anything to catch the bastard.”
Lucky left to serve patrons, and we sat silently. I studied the painting of the nude.
“What’s running through your head?” Baker asked.
I kept my gaze on the painting. “That Michelangelo is branching out into new mediums.”
“Meaning that using an MO to nab him is just about impossible,” Baker said.
I nodded. “It also means that he’ll be eager to find new models.”