The Art of Violence Read online

  “I told you. I want you to investigate. Find evidence. Prove it’s me.”

  “Why?”

  The crimson anger faded from his face. “Don’t you get it?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  He waited a long time before he spoke again. When he did, his voice was low and muffled, a directionless echo across a great distance.

  “If you bring the cops something real, they’ll arrest me.”

  “And that would be good?”

  “Of course it would.” Now his words were almost too soft to hear. “If I’m inside, I can’t kill anyone else. Smith? I don’t want to kill anyone else.” He sat folded tight, arms wrapping his chest. “And soon,” he whispered. “You have to do it soon.”

  “Why soon?”

  “They stuck me in a group show at the Whitney. At the last minute. Aren’t I lucky? It opens tomorrow.” Abruptly, he boomed, “Stress, stress, stress! That stress train is coming, it’s speeding down the track! Chugga chugga chugga blam!”

  “You think you’ll kill someone? The day after?”

  His voice dropped back to normal. “My, you catch on quick.”

  “If you’re really worried, there are ways to get locked up without being arrested. You could commit yourself.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. If you think I’m going back to the bin, you’re crazy! The one I went to, it was a nice private bin, gardens and everything. Eight months. It made me the man I am today. Drugs, restraints, bright lights, other lunatics screaming all night. No. Never again.”

  “But prison? Sam, if you are this killer and I prove it, they’ll put you back in for the rest of your life.”

  He smiled. “You know how I survived inside? Scrawny little white guy like me? I did drawings of the other cons. And the COs, sometimes. They’d give them to their girlfriends or their kids. A lifer told me his wife had a picture of him a guy in Central Park did but mine was better. He meant it as high praise and I took it that way. So they all looked after me. Isn’t that a joke? My whole life I never showed anyone my work, like I was afraid of something, and the first time I let people see it, it’s gangbangers and killers. And they love it.”

  “Those drawings must be valuable now.”

  “I know, right? That’s even funnier. All those hard men’s baby mamas with signed Sam Tabors. Cracks me up. I can handle prison, Smith. But not the bin.”

  He was trembling all over. I got up, got the coffee, poured him what was left.

  “Shit,” he said. “Don’t you have any scotch around here?”

  I said nothing.

  “What, no lecture? ‘Sam, you need to stop drinking, you’re a fucking alkie drunk no-good boozehound’?”

  “I thought we agreed I wasn’t babysitting.”

  “Peter still lectures me. He’s still trying to make me a responsible adult. Don’t tell him I came here, okay? He’s not paying you for this. I am. I’m Sam Tabor now, you know. I’m rich.” Sam paused. “Oh, shit.”

  “What?”

  “I think I asked him for your address.”

  “You think?”

  “No, I did. But don’t tell him why. I don’t want him to know about this until…” He threw back some coffee, made a face. “When we were kids, I did stupid things all the time. Not Peter. I was older, but he was smarter. He knew painting the couch was a bad idea, even if Mom and Dad hated the upholstery. They’d beat the crap out of me, and Peter would beg them to stop. They would, because he was so adorable, crying like that. Later, everyone would yell and scream. Dad would yell at Mom how I couldn’t help it, it was just how I was, and Mom would yell back that I had to learn. And Peter would scream at me. It was all…

  “See, they all, even Dad, thought I did stupid stuff on purpose. That I knew it was stupid and did it anyway. But it wasn’t like that. I just… I just… There are so many things I don’t get, Smith. Does that make sense?”

  “Sam,” I said, “I’m not arguing that you’re not crazy. I just don’t think you’re a serial killer.”

  He lifted his coffee again, this time sipping it slowly, savoring it like the fine liqueur he no doubt wished it were. Gently, he put the mug down on the table. “Fine,” he said, his voice tired. “Then prove that.”

  3

  I sat for a long time after Sam left, just looking at my own walls, the drawings and photographs there. Finally I went to the piano. I was working on a Schubert Impromptu and I’d been having trouble with the fingering. I tried a few things, but I couldn’t get anything to work. I gave it up and went to bed.

  What felt like ten minutes later, the phone blasted me out of a deep sleep. I fumbled for it, croaked, “Smith.”

  “Smith, it’s Peter Tabor. I’m sorry to call so early.”

  “Peter?” A current surged through me. “Is Sam all right?”

  “As far as I know,” Peter said. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “What the hell time is it?” I moved the blind aside. A streak of light sliced the floor.

  “Seven thirty. I have an eight o’clock meeting. I wanted to talk to you before my day got started.”

  We were already talking long before my day usually did. I slumped back against the pillow, reached for my cigarettes. “Okay,” I said. “Go.”

  “It’s about Sam, of course.” Peter paused. “Did he go see you last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he try to hire you?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.” I lit up, felt that first flash of nicotine.

  “You may be misunderstanding me. I’m not asking why, just if.”

  “And if?”

  “Did you agree?”

  “Peter, I’m sorry, but that’s between me and Sam.”

  A breath, while Peter collected his thoughts. “Smith, listen to me. Whatever he wants—please, remember he’s crazy. He may be out and walking around, his paintings may be selling for a fortune, but that doesn’t mean he knows whether he’s in Kansas or Oz.”

  “That didn’t come up.”

  “You can imagine the pressure he’s been under. He’s not handling it well.”

  “It would be hard for anyone to handle.”

  “He’s… On and off, he’s been delusional. Nothing enormous, nothing dangerous. Actually, nothing so different from the way he’s always been. But I’m sure whatever he told you sounded strange, bizarre…”

  “You’re fishing. I’m not biting.”

  “No, no, I’m not. I’m not asking what he wanted. It’s just, no matter how bizarre it sounded, I’m hoping you agreed to do it.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes. If you turned him down, I’d like you to reconsider. If you don’t feel he offered you enough money, tell me what you need.”

  He was right, I’d misunderstood. “Why?”

  Peter paused. “This is the first time in Sam’s life he’s ever had a chance. The first time he’s somebody. Lemuria Gallery, Sherron Konecki, these are major players. Other galleries wanted him, too, do you understand? For any artist to have a New York gallery is a big deal. To be courted when you’re new instead of going from one gallery to another on your knees, that’s just about unheard of. But Lemuria! Sherron gave him the whole gallery, both levels—”

  “I saw the show.”

  “You did?” Peter stopped, sounding as surprised as Sam had.

  “I was curious.”

  “I—What did you think?”

  I gave him my review, the same one I’d given Sam.

  “Well, a lot of people agree with you,” Peter said. “The paintings are unnerving. But a lot of people also do not agree with you, including the art world establishment. The critics, the collectors, they think Sam Tabor’s the greatest thing since sliced bread. He got reviews in the Times and the Journal. He had the Art Now cover. He’s important.”

  I thought of Sam, hunched over, saying, I painted in a basement in Queens… I wish it was still like that.

  “But lately,” Peter said, “lately he’s been getting mor
e agitated. It happened just before he got out, just before his show opened, and now again, leading up to the Whitney. It’s partly my fault. We’ve been really busy in the office, and Leslie keeps pushing me to focus here and not on Sam. But still, I should have seen it coming. I should’ve backed those people off. The press, Sherron, the collectors. That gonzo photographer who wants to live in Sam’s pocket.”

  “Tony Oakhurst?”

  “What a jerk.”

  I didn’t know Oakhurst, so I couldn’t pass judgment on the man, but his work was oddly similar to Sam’s: striking surfaces with an underlayer of violence and threat. I wondered if Peter saw the resemblance.

  “But we owe them,” Peter said. “They got Sam out. So I let them come around. Up to the prison, over to the house when he got out, now to his studio. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late.”

  “Too late how?”

  “I’ve seen Sam in stress situations all his life. He cooks up delusions to distract himself. And he revs up his drinking. But those things don’t always keep the demons under the bed. The Whitney opening is tonight, and Sam’s right on the edge. He’s got this idea you can help him. Help him do what, I don’t know. Stop the Martians from beaming him up or something. Whatever it is, I’d like you to do it. Or pretend you’re doing it. To keep him from capsizing. Do it very, very quietly so it doesn’t get around that Sam Tabor’s afraid of the Martians, but do it.”

  “You think these important art people don’t already know Sam’s crazy?”

  “Of course they do. It’s part of his attraction. That he’s a convicted killer, that he was discovered in prison. They see the violence in the work, they think it’s also in him, and they adore it. ‘Oh, yes, darling, you must meet him, I get the shivers when he looks at me.’ ” Peter’s voice had gone up and nasal, mimicking a vapid patron of the arts, and pretty well, too. “ ‘We bought one of his newest, we hung it where the Koons used to be.’ ” Himself again: “But it’s a haunted house in a theme park. You can let it scare you because it’s not real. It’s under control. But Sam isn’t. He needs to be at the Whitney tonight, maybe not in a suit and tie, but with his pants on. And sober enough to stand. If he thinks you hunting the Martians will help, then please, do it?”

  “All right,” I said.

  “You will?” Peter almost audibly stumbled, like a man pushing on an open door. “That’s great. I appreciate that. Thank you. I’ll send you a check, will that be okay? Or you could come by.”

  “No, this was Sam’s idea. I’m sure, these days, he’s good for it.”

  “He is,” said Peter. “But if he writes you a check from the National Bank of Oz, let me know.”

  I hung up, made coffee, poured a cup, and thumbed the speed dial on my phone.

  “You have to be kidding me,” Lydia answered, before I said anything. “You’re still up from last night, right?”

  “Wrong. A potential client woke me from a sound sleep and offered me a lot of money. If you’d spent the night, you’d know that.”

  “And you’d be explaining yourself to my mother right now. Besides, except for the money, that doesn’t sound like a client you’ll be happy to have.”

  “I didn’t take it. You free for lunch?”

  “Why? You want to give me the client because our clocks are in synch?”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “Good, because that would be dopey.”

  “You’re undervaluing a good night’s sleep. Anyway, I may need you, or I may not.”

  “I thought you always needed me.”

  “For the case.”

  “That’s better.”

  “I’ll know by midday. Either way, you’ll get lunch out of it.”

  “Can I pick the restaurant?”

  “Keep in mind I didn’t take the money.”

  “The Fatty Crab. Hudson Street. Haute Malaysian.”

  “I’ve heard of it. I don’t think I’m cool enough.”

  “No, but I am.”

  I made two other calls, then headed out. By now, it was half past eight. Traffic choked the streets, and pedestrians wove complex patterns on the sidewalks. All traces of last night’s mist had burned away under the April sun. The slanting whiteness of the light, the thin freshness of the day, dazzled me.

  Lydia’s suggested any number of times that I consider changing my ways, getting up earlier, taking this in more often. She thinks it’s laziness and old habit that keep me from it. But she’s wrong. This unsullied light, this bright vision, they’re beautiful, but they’re false. They paint over the truth. They promise something they can’t deliver. It’s not until the day gets older, wearier, that it stops making the effort to lie.

  4

  The 19th Precinct is a modern building behind an old façade. I remember when they built it. They tore off the roof, razed the interior, left the brick fronts of the police station and the firehouse next to it standing like movie sets propped by steel beams. Then they started to build. The old openings were fitted with new doors and windows and given new rooms to open on, designed for uses the old rooms couldn’t have envisioned or fulfilled. Everything behind the stage-set fronts is new, but from outside it looks like nothing’s changed.

  The desk sergeant grunted me upstairs. Twisting corridors took me to the squad room, where half a dozen detectives sat behind scarred desks. Only one of the appraising stares leveled at me as I walked in came from a woman. I headed in her direction.

  “Smith?” she asked. When I nodded she said, “Grimaldi. Go on, sit down.”

  Detective Angela Grimaldi looked a little younger than I, probably midthirties. Her brown hair was blond-streaked and wild, the kind of tight curls a lot of women cut short; she wore it shoulder-length, with a comb stuck in one side to persuade it to mind its manners. Her shirtsleeves were rolled up over smooth, muscular forearms.

  I sat. The other stares dropped back to paperwork, coffee, and keyboards, but no question every cop in that room knew where I was every minute.

  “Thanks for seeing me,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, what I’m thinking, I talk to you, you keep that whack job away from me.” Grimaldi’s chair creaked and bounced as she leaned back, crossing her legs.

  “You mean Sam.”

  “Freaking lunatic,” she said cheerfully. “I got too much to do, I don’t need him. Creepy, the way he sits all squeezed in like that, won’t look you in the eye.”

  “He’s afraid he killed those women.”

  “Afraid.” Grimaldi snorted. “Hoping, you mean. So, what can I do for you?”

  “I’d like whatever you can give me on those two homicides. The one here, and the one on the West Side.”

  “What makes you think I got anything on the West Side one?”

  “I know it’s too soon for the NYPD to call this a serial killer. But the papers did, which means the cases have a family resemblance. You and whoever caught the one across town would have shared information by now. One of you would be the lead. If it weren’t you, you’d have sent me across town when I called to see the other guy.”

  She tilted her head, maybe reappraising me. “Okay, it’s true. No task force yet or anything like that, and officially the department’s still telling the Post they’re full of shit. Mason over at the two-oh is working his like just another homicide. Which it might be, except it’s a cold case by now, almost six months. I’m working mine that way, too. But I’m the clearinghouse. In case another one turns up. There’s a whole protocol for this serial killer shit, you know.”

  “I didn’t know, but I’m not surprised.”

  “I spent time at Quantico two years ago. Did the FBI serial killer course.”

  “Is it like Silence of the Lambs?”

  “Quantico? It’s a pit. Roommates, reveille—I wanted that, I’d’ve stayed in the army.”

  “Sounds like you didn’t enjoy it.”

  “You kidding? I loved it. Put in for the advanced course next summer. Bu
t I’ll tell you this for free: your guy, Tabor, he don’t fit the profile.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to nail him for this. Not a cop in New York wouldn’t. Lots of crying in the beer when he got sprung.”

  “He spent five years upstate.”

  “And it should’ve been life. No new evidence, no one saying he didn’t kill that girl, but suddenly the guy’s Picasso, he can’t rot behind bars like normal mutts. Gimme a freaking break! And you seen the shit he paints? Kind of pretty, like what my folks have over the couch, until you look close. You seen it?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know. But there you go. I just lock ’em up. People with juice want ’em out walking the streets, what can I do?”

  “I’m not sure Sam wouldn’t agree with you.”

  “I told you he was a whack job.”

  “He is. But then why do you say he doesn’t fit the profile?”

  “Before I answer that, what exactly are you supposed to be doing here? You said you were working for him, you didn’t say doing what.”

  “He thinks he killed those women. He wants me to prove it, or disprove it.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you think a guy would want to know whether he did something like that?”

  “I’m just saying. Not a lot of people, they can’t get arrested, they hire private talent to prove they’re good for it.”

  “He’s afraid he’ll do it again. If it is him, he wants to be stopped.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “No.”

  “He wants his ass locked up, you mean? Tell him to jaywalk. Spit on the sidewalk. Carry a gun.”

  I didn’t mention the gun Sam had been carrying last night. “Detective, he wants to know.”

  “What a crock.” She shook her head. The comb in her hair loosened, threatening a cascade. “So,” she said, jabbing it tight again. “You and me, are we at cross purposes here? I’m trying to find who killed my vic. I got no one I like for it right now, but I know I don’t like your client. You don’t like your client for it either, but he does. I got to tell you, this is a new one on me. Am I going to be tripping over you? You going to confuse my witnesses, contaminate my evidence?”