Chapter Eleven

Deeprose took a deep breath before walking into the museum. The temporary curator, Mr. Moreland, had been there less than a week when he was replaced. She was here today to meet the new permanent curator, James Alquist.

She flashed her badge and extended a hand to him. “Good Afternoon, Mr. Alquist. Ah’m Special Agent Deeprose. Thank you for your time this mornin’. Do you know, sir, why Mr. Moreland chose not to stay on? Ah’ mean, temporary positions are usually a formality, aren’t they?”

“Mr. Moreland contacted me a few days ago. It seems he was unable to stay on permanently. He didn’t say why, and I didn’t ask. All I know is that this opportunity landed right in my lap. He said he was calling because he’d met me about a year ago at one of his lectures on Impressionism. Apparently, we spoke afterwards, but I didn’t recall it. My daughter had been ill with scarlet fever at the time, so I only had a vague recollection of it, but by the time we hung up, I remembered he’d said he’d been working with scientists over the years who believed that curing disease was far less effective than eliminating it from the human genome altogether. Long story short, Mr. Moreland remembered me, and that’s how I’m here today.”

A temporary museum curator who also worked with scientists messin’ around with D.N.A.? Interestin’.

“Mr. Moreland sounds like a fascinatin’ man. Ah didn’t have a chance to talk with him last week. Do you know where Ah might find him?”

“I believe he said he was doing a series of lectures in several different countries; sort of a world tour.”

“Thank you, Mr. Alquist. We’ll follow up on that later. If you don’t mind my askin’, have y’all decided to let us test the gloves the killer used for finger prints?”

“Yes, I have. I’ve already spoken to the board of directors. You now have permission to use any materials you deem necessary to close your investigation. The gloves are priceless, but we’d rather sacrifice them than keep them if it means catching a killer and saving this museum from financial ruin.”

“Ah truly appreciate that, Mr. Alquist.” Deeprose noticed something unusual on Alquist’s desk. As she spoke, she removed her Smartphone from her jacket pocket. “Ah see y’all have a book on Impressionist art on your desk. Does it belong to Mr. Moreland?”

“It did, but he left it here for me. In fact, he donated a painting to us which I’m sending over to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Impressionist art doesn’t fit in with our medieval theme. I just wanted to brush up on my knowledge of it before contacting the Met.”

“Ah’d like to take a look at the paintin’ if possible, Mr. Alquist.”

“Certainly. Let’s take a walk and view it together.”

“Ballerinas! How beautiful they are!” She came as close as she dared to the precious painting to study the dancers at their rehearsal.

“It’s a Degas.” Clayton framed the painting with his hands. “You can feel the drama.”

“They look worried.”

“Yes, worried about their performance, I imagine, as well as the choreographer. That’s what makes a Degas so special. His subjects were almost always ballerinas. I think he was fascinated by performance art. These ballerinas had one chance to get it right every evening, and when they could no longer perform, they either faded into obscurity as a fat man’s mistress or starved to death. It was a hard life.”

“Ah’m sure. Would it be all right if Ah took a photo of it?”

“Go right ahead, but please don’t use your flash.”

Why would Moreland donate a painting done by a master of 19^th century Impressionist art to a museum dedicated to medieval art? Ah don’t know…the fear in those faces is unmistakable, even to someone who knows nothin’ about art. They all seem so afraid. What are they tryin’ to tell me?

“Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Alquist. It was a pleasure meetin’ you.”

She read a text message from Carter as she left the building. He was worried about her. She texted back, “Ah went to the museum to meet the new curator. Ah think Ah’m on to somethin’. We’ll talk later.”

***

Michael and Alison got off the train at 59th Street and Columbus Circle and walked along for a few blocks until he recognized the bar where Eliza sat drinking the night before.

“She won’t believe us, Michael. She was able to resist the drug, so why should she believe us? She may call the police; then what do we do?”

“Calm down! We have leverage, Alison. She’s in a lot of trouble; she just doesn’t know it yet. Whether she completes her kill or not, she’ll be next, just like we are. Her only choice is to help us, so for all our sakes, she needs to be convinced that helping us is the only way to help herself. She has to believe her life is in danger, because it is, so don’t blow it, Alison.”

Michael opened the door to McGee’s Pub and looked around. He spotted Eliza at the bar right away. They seated themselves next to her and gave their order to the bartender.

Eliza was a mean drunk. She obviously came here often because she knew the bartender by name. “Gimme another, Jimmy.”

“You’ve had enough, Eliza. It’s time to go.”

“I said give me another drink!”

Alison saw her chance. “We know her. We’ll take care of it. Come on, Eliza, let’s all sit down and have something to eat.”

Eliza squinted at them. “Who the fuck are you? I don’t want any food. I want another drink.”

“All right, all right, but let’s all sit down where we can talk. We’ll take you home, don’t worry.”

They steered a weaving Eliza over to a table in the back of a section partitioned off by a brick wall. It was empty back there - the perfect spot for what they were about to tell her. Alison had the waiter bring them a pot of strong coffee. She poured just enough Irish whiskey in each mug to mollify Eliza. After several mugs, she seemed a little more coherent. “I think I should take her to the ladies’ room to splash her face with some cold water.”

In the restroom, Eliza turned green and started to sweat. Suddenly, she went into a rage, kicking in stall doors and punching the mirror. “That bitch! I’m going to kill her for what she did to me! I hate her! She has to die. She has to …” Eliza passed out in Alison’s arms.

She’s not drunk at all! We forgot the drug would still be in her system until tomorrow.

Alison half carried and half dragged Eliza outside, signaling Michael as they passed through the dining room. He got Eliza’s address from the bartender, paid the bill, and told him they’d take her home. He searched her pockets outside and found her car keys. “We’ll get her home and make sure she doesn’t leave until the drug wears off. When she wakes up from the nightmare and sees us, I think she might be more willing to listen.”

“I hope she lives alone.”

“Jimmy said she’s a loser with a gutter mouth- no job, no friends. She comes in there almost every night and drinks until she’s stoned. He usually winds up cutting her off and calling a cab.”

Great. Another one. This is all I need.

Eliza kicked and screamed all night. It took both of them to hold her down. The bed was soaked with sweat, but they didn’t dare let go of her to change the sheets. When morning finally came, a very crass, very nasty woman opened her eyes and stared at Alison for a moment.

“Who the fuck are you? What are you doing here?”

“We know you from the Collective. We saw you at McGee’s last night, and the bartender asked us to bring you home. He thought you were drunk, but you weren’t.” Alison told Eliza the whole story. “I don’t know how you did it, but you went to that bar instead of killing your target. We tracked you down and took you home. We’ve been here all night.”

Eliza reached under the bed and produced a baseball bat. “You get out of here right now! I don’t know you, and I don’t know him. Whatever you’re after, you can just forget it. There’s nothing here for you to take, and it’s not my place, anyhow. If you’re not out of this apartment in five seconds, I’ll beat you both to death with this bat.”

“Eliza, think! Didn’t you dream you wanted to kill someone? Someone who you thought was a terrible person? In your dream, didn’t you know her name, her address, and your entire plan of attack? Listen to me! If we hadn’t brought you home and sat on you all night, you might have woken up a killer, guilty of first degree murder. Think!”

Eliza lowered the bat and shut up long enough to try to recall her dream. She sat up in bed and began to think. “Yeah, I did dream I killed someone last night. And it was a woman.” She slapped the cold cloth out of Alison’s hand. “Get that thing off me.”

Michael went out of the bedroom and came back with three cups of coffee. Alison began again and explained Eliza’s position to her. She told her there was a way they could save themselves. Eliza nodded, and Alison explained Michael’s idea, who was oddly silent. Michael wasn’t good with strong women in the first place, but this one made him want to cross his legs. He thought it would be better all around if he kept his mouth shut.

“First we’re going to talk to the woman you were assigned. We need her to tell us and the cops why the Silver Man wants her dead. Once they find a valid motive, they’ll start digging into our assignments and hopefully find the same one. Once we get samples of the drug they used on us and turn them over to the police, all we have to do is tell them where the next meeting is so they can search the hall, and we’re all free.”

“I need a drink. Hand me that bottle on the dresser.”

“I don’t think you should be drinking now, Eliza. We have a lot to do.”

“Give me the damn bottle!”

Alison gave it to her, not knowing what else to do. If Eliza was an alcoholic, she’d need it to keep away the D.T.’s.

“Look, Miss Nicey-Nicey, don’t get all ‘Come to Jesus’ on me. I’m in. No one’s gonna force me to live on the run or kill anyone I don’t already want dead.” She took a long swig of whiskey straight from the bottle and shuddered. “That’s better. What’s next?”

Alison continued. “We need you to tell us everything you can about the woman you were sent to kill. Once we talk to her, we help Michael get the Silver Man’s stash of the killing drug. You’re the only one we know of who was drugged but didn’t do the kill. We’re guilty, Eliza, but we didn’t do this voluntarily. You, your target, and that drug are going to prove it for us.”

Eliza closed her eyes to think. “She’s a ballerina. Her name is Clara.”

***

Special Agent Deeprose scheduled a meeting with Carter and Fischetti. She wanted to tell them about the painting left behind by Mr. Moreland.

Fischetti was livid. “Do you mean to tell me that just because a temporary curator made a gift of a valuable painting to a museum, you think he’s involved in some plot to have ballerinas killed?” There were veins popping out on Fischetti’s neck; he looked like a balloon ready to burst. “Agent Deepose, will you please wait outside for a moment? I’d like to talk to Agent Carter privately.”

“Yes, sir. Ah apologize if Ah came on a little too strong.” Deeprose realized too late she’d done this the wrong way. She should have discussed it with Carter first. Now, neither of them were likely to give any credence to her idea. Humiliated, she rose and left the office hoping she wasn’t going to be fired.

“What in the holy hell is going on here, Carter?”

“Sir, I apologize for Agent Deeprose’s overly enthusiastic approach today. I’ll make sure she understands the importance of checking with me before she takes action. However…”

Fischetti’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you agree with her, Agent.”

“Well, it is a little out of the ordinary, sir. Moreland shows up on the scene as a temporary curator. He seems desperate to avoid questioning. Less than a week later, he’s gone, having found his own replacement – a man who tells us Moreland was involved with high-level scientific projects concerning D.N.A. What this has to do with anything is not my concern. It’s just that it doesn’t make sense that a man of scientific importance at the national level also happens to be an international lecturer on Impressionist art. Or so he says. Where would he get a genuine Degas, sir? Why in the world would he give something like that to the Cloisters as a gift? It’s not medieval. Why would a temporary curator with a great opportunity dumped right into his lap, leave? Agent Deeprose absolutely went about this the wrong way, sir, but I think she’s on to something, and I’d like to follow up on it.”

Fischetti sat back in his chair, amazed. “You think there will be more murders, don’t you? And you’re suggesting a ballerina is the next target.”

“Yes, sir. We’re close to confirming our first two were not committed by the same perps. Still, something seems to be leading us from one to the other. I can’t help feeling that they’re separate but related. I agree with Agent Deeprose’s assessment. We’re looking for a ballerina being stalked or already dead.”

Fischetti gave his permission to move ahead and dismissed Carter. When his office was quiet again, he swiveled his chair toward the window behind his desk. He lost track of how much time he sat there staring at nothing and drumming his fingers on the window sill.