The Death Artist by Jonathan Santlofer Page B

tutelage, remember? And a damn good one.”
    “I know that,” said Tapell. “But that was a long time ago. Now you’re Mrs. Kate Rothstein, well-known art expert, socialite, philanthropist–and one of this city’s greatest attributes as far as I’m concerned. How can I justify putting you on this case?”
    Kate let herself sink into the soft leather couch, her adrenaline starting to wane. She closed her eyes; Elena’s blood-stained face winked behind her lids. “There was something there,” she said. “Something . . . I know this sounds weird . . but something familiar in that scene.”
    “Like what?”
    Kate closed her eyes, tried to see it again–the spare room, pillows on the floor, Elena’s body–but this time it eluded her. “I don’t know. I’m not seeing it now, but–”
    “You’re too emotionally involved, too close to the victim, Kate.”
    “Balls! I got close to half the runaway kids I found, and you know that.”
    “ After you found them,” said Tapell.
    “My feelings–my emotions–helped me find them,” said Kate. “And I’ve got a feeling about this, too.”
    Tapell took a seat across the room, locked her long fingers together. “Look, Kate, I’d like to help you out, but you’ve got to give me more than a feeling if you want to be advising on this case.” She shook her head, stood. “Do yourself a favor, Kate. Go home to that wonderful husband of yours and tell him that the chief of police has promised to take care of this–and I will.” She took Kate’s hand in hers. Tapell’s eyes were sympathetic, but her hands were perfectly cool. “Go home, Kate.”
    The ice in Richard Rothstein’s second glass of Scotch had melted. He looked at his illuminated watch dial: twelve-twenty. He was tired, agitated.
    He wondered if the restaurant had given Kate his message, and if she was annoyed. She had probably tried to call him on his cell phone, the one he was currently recharging, the batteries having gone dead hours ago.
    He moved to the windows. Somewhere below, on Central Park West, a siren blared. Street lamps illuminated the trees that bordered the edge of the park, dappling light onto Strawberry Fields. Across the park, the ornate mansard roofs of Fifth Avenue hotels painted a haphazard geometry against a black sky.
    But even if Kate was annoyed with him, he knew she would forgive him for not showing up. Kate, he thought, would forgive him just about anything.
    Richard gulped down the watered-down Scotch, flipped the switch of a modernist zigzag lamp. It cast a yellowish light under one of his recent purchases, a mask from the Ivory Coast, for which he had outbid the Museum for African Art. The piece looked absolutely perfect beside the one-eyed Picasso, a sketchy self-portrait the artist had tossed off in 1901.
    Just when he was wondering how an East Village performance could go on past midnight, he heard the front door. He called out–“Kate?”–then peered into the darkened hall to find his wife leaning heavily against the wall. “Darling? What’s the matter?” The words were lost a bit as he hurried toward her.
    “Oh, Richard–” For the first time in hours Kate could not find her voice. She let go and collapsed against her husband with deep, choking sobs.
    Richard let her cry. In all the years he had been with Kate, he had rarely seen her in tears. Yes, after the miscarriages, and when it had become clear that they would not be having children of their own, then she cried. But even then, not like this. He stroked her hair, slowly moved her into the living room, onto the couch, where he held her to his chest and waited.
    Finally she managed to tell him about Elena.
    “Oh my God.” Richard reared back as if he’d been hit, and Kate started sobbing all over again. It was another ten minutes before she pulled herself together enough to tell him about her meeting with Tapell.
    “Be part of an investigation? Are you insane?”
    “I know it sounds crazy,