The Death Artist by Jonathan Santlofer Page A

the face of a defensive twelve-year-old who’d won her heart; snippets of conversations over so many dinners; the two of them arguing like any mother and daughter about the practicality of a thin cotton coat right in the middle of Urban Outfitters; Elena’s Juilliard graduation; and again, Elena’s performance piece at the museum less than a week ago.
    Kate choked on her tears, the pain like a hot skewer twisting into the delicate muscle of her heart. But once again, miraculously, she managed to survive, dabbed her red eyes with a tissue, fixed her lipstick, put one foot in front of the other.
    Minutes later she was inside, waiting, staring at floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Law reviews. Case studies. Every known book on criminology. Hundreds of them.
    The library, to Kate’s mind, suited Tapell perfectly. What was it she’d been hearing people call the chief lately–Unflappable Tapell?
    Hell, what did they expect from a chief of police–some touchy-feely, soft-hearted mark? Even back in Astoria, when Tapell ran the precinct and Kate was one of the cops, Tapell was all work and no play. But the two had immediately hit it off. Maybe each sensed that the other was going places, that Astoria was just a launching pad. It wasn’t long before Tapell was running the entire Queens NYPD; then, within a few years, Manhattan’s Bureau of Operations. By then, Kate had left the force, was fast becoming a mover and shaker in New York’s elite circle–one that included the mayor. When a cops-on-the-take scandal brought down the former chief of police and his staff, Kate recommended the straight-as-an-arrow Tapell to fill the vacancy.
    The door to the chief’s inner office opened. Two heavyset men in ill-fitting suits–detectives, Kate surmised–were practically glued to the chief’s sides.
    Kate took in Tapell’s statuesque proportions as if it were their first meeting: almost as tall as herself; broad shoulders accentuated by the pads of the herringbone suit; sturdy, though not quite shapely legs in ultrasheer stockings. Her face was all angles: sharp cheekbones; jutting chin; a high forehead accentuated by hair spiked with gray, pulled tightly back and braided into a severe bun. Her skin tone, a dark burnt sienna, was clear and practically unlined for her fifty-one years. Other than the reddish-brown lipstick that accentuated her sculpted lips, it was hard to tell if she was wearing any makeup. Clare Tapell, New York’s first female chief of police, and an African American, was not what you would call pretty, but she was certainly a striking figure.
    Tapell clasped Kate’s hand in hers. “Sorry,” she said. She nodded at the detectives, who immediately took off. “Late-night meeting,” she said. “A man in a phone booth was shot by a passing car–on upper Madison Avenue, no less.” She stopped, still holding Kate’s hand, looked directly in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Kate. About . . . your Elena.”
    The library walls seemed to echo the words in Kate’s ears: your Elena your Elena your Elena . . .
    “And I’m also sorry if the police put you through anything. I’ll have a word with Randy Mead.”
    Kate shrugged. “It’s okay. He was just doing his job. I’d had enough of it, that’s all.”
    Tapell nodded. “I’ll have him put his best people on the case right away. Mead may come across as a bit of a clown, but he’s smart enough to have gotten himself in charge of the city’s special homicide at the age of thirty-six, which is not bad. He’ll get the job done.”
    “I want to be a part of the investigation,” said Kate.
    Tapell was about to speak, but stopped, walked across the room, ran her hand along the top of the wainscoting. When she turned, there was a painful frown pinching her strong face. “I don’t see how that’s possible, Kate.”
    “Anything’s possible, Clare. You, of all people, should know that.” Kate locked eyes with the chief of police. “I was a cop, under your