The Art of Murder Read online

  Paulo had belonged to Karen’s mother, and when she’d passed away a couple of years earlier, Karen couldn’t bear the thought of him belonging to strangers so had brought him home, along with boxes of photographs and pieces of furniture that reminded her of her childhood. Nick hadn’t been pleased. They’d argued about the bird for days. But Karen held firm. Paulo stayed. Once upon a time she might’ve given in, letting Nick have his way. But this time she didn’t. It felt as good to see Nick lose as it did to win. Maybe that had been another clue.

  Karen muted the TV but quickly undid it. She did actually want to know what had happened. She wished you could mute the picture.

  Nick was vague. Another murder. A man. An apartment in Tribeca. The reporter asked him if it was linked to other murders that had happened in the last few months and Nick gave her a smile, as if she’d asked if he’d like to come up for a drink.

  Karen closed her eyes. Muting the picture.

  ‘This is the fourth murder in as many months of someone in their own home,’ the reporter said.

  ‘This is New York,’ Nick said. ‘We get a lot of murders.’

  ‘True. But there’s a lot of chatter about these particular cases. The word “unusual” has been mentioned. Even by yourself, Detective.’

  Karen’s eyes opened and she caught the look on Nick’s face, a brief flicker. He always was terrible at poker.

  ‘And the fact you’re here suggests a link,’ the reporter said.

  ‘What can I say? I have a heavy caseload. It’s tough being this good,’ Nick said. ‘So if you’re ever in the market for a change of career, I can always use a helping hand.’

  That was the moment Karen saw it. The look. The same look Nick had given Zoe when he was fucking her.

  Paulo squawked.

  ‘You’re right again,’ Karen said. ‘He’s sleeping with her.’

  Karen wondered if he was currently sleeping with the reporter, or if he had been in the past. Maybe it was recent, maybe it had been back when she and Nick still considered themselves to be married. Maybe it didn’t matter. He could sleep with whomever he wanted to now. Not that it had stopped him before. But at least these days he didn’t have to skulk around in the shadows, telling lies. He was free to be himself.

  She turned off the news. Nick wasn’t going to share anything important about the murder. As the reporter suggested, there were rumors that these cases were connected, that whoever had murdered them had done more than just kill. Apparently one of the witnesses, someone who’d found one of the bodies, had revealed that not only had his friend been mutilated, but the body had been displayed in an elaborate set-up.

  Obviously this got the media whipped up into a frenzy, and for days afterwards, all Karen heard was people speculating. But there’d been no corroboration from anyone connected to the other victims, nor had the police confirmed the witness’s statement. Karen had to wonder if it was nothing. Just a coincidence that there’d been four murders in a few months that took place in the victims’ homes. It was New York, as Nick said. Stranger things had happened. And yet, Nick had that look about him. The cat who got the cream.

  There had to be something different about these cases, something exciting. But if that was true, she’d probably be the last to know. Some people thought that, as a detective’s wife, she would get inside information about these things, and maybe once upon a time she did. There was a time he’d come home and tell her about his day, share some juicy details. But that didn’t last. For the most part, she knew as little as the rest of the world. Not because Nick suddenly learned to be professional, but because they’d just stopped talking about things. Another clue right there. The great detective hadn’t picked up on that. Or maybe he had. Maybe he just didn’t care. The case of Karen Kelly. A cold case. A closed case.

  Karen laughed. She probably shouldn’t have had that third glass of wine. She had things to do. She would have to get to the bookstore early the following day. She needed to rethink things now that Sofia was gone.

  Sofia. Karen topped up her glass as she thought about her. She’d known it would be difficult. She’d never had to let anyone go before, and even though she’d rehearsed what she’d say a hundred times, somehow the conversation had gotten away from her. If you could call it a conversation. Karen had barely got out her first line when Sofia screamed. Threatening to sue her. Accusing her of being racist. Of sleeping with Jamie. Why else would she be firing Sofia and not him?

  Karen tried to reason with her. She wasn’t firing her, she was letting her go. Her bookstore was struggling. There was no way Karen could keep Sofia on. And Jamie had been there longer. But Sofia didn’t want to hear it. She’d stomped out of the office and stood in the store, screaming at anyone who’d listen. In the end, Jamie asked if he should call the police, but Sofia finally left of her own accord. But only after throwing a first edition of Tender is the Night at Jamie’s head. Karen still felt slightly guilty that she was more concerned about the book than Jamie. But that was three days earlier and she hadn’t heard from Sofia since. Hopefully the threat of a lawsuit was just that – a threat. Karen had no desire, or resources, to see more of her lawyer.

  She’d hoped that the divorce would be simple. Neither she nor Nick wanted to stay together so it should’ve been easy. They’d go their separate ways and leave the last few shitty years behind them. Except neither of them wanted to leave the apartment. They both loved the place, but more than that, they knew that if they did the reasonable thing and sold it, splitting the money equally, they would never be able to afford another place in the city. So instead of acting like adults, they hunkered down, refusing to leave, refusing to let it go. Karen had her lawyer, Nick had his.

  Her lawyer, Jemima, advised going for a no-fault divorce, telling Karen it would be less traumatic all round. But as far as Karen was concerned, there was fault. Nick’s fault. But seeking a divorce based on his adultery meant providing evidence of his affairs from a third party. Something Karen couldn’t do. So she was willing to let that go. Who cared what the official reason was? As long as she got the apartment. But there was the rub. As she and Nick couldn’t come to an agreement by themselves, the court would decide. And until they did, they both had the right to stay. So they cohabited, like roommates who despised one another, being petty about the food in the fridge.

  It was driving Karen mad, but she hung on, hopeful that the court would rule in her favor. She was the injured party after all. But Jemima had burst that bubble too, telling her that Nick’s cheating was unlikely to have any impact on the decision, not unless they got a particularly sympathetic judge.

  So there they were. Stuck in limbo, neither willing to budge. There were times when she almost did. When the tension of sharing the space with this man she no longer loved became too much and she wanted it to stop. But she’d been weak. She needed to stand up for herself. So she wouldn’t give in. Besides, Nick worked long hours. There was plenty of time to be alone. And with those murders keeping him busy, it gave her space to breathe.

  She looked at the clock. Nick wouldn’t be home for hours. Even when they were happy, it had been this way. Where other cops called their wives to tell them they’d be late, Karen would just watch TV.

  Maybe that had been another clue. She had always been his audience more than his wife.

  4

  Michael

  The blue light of the TV made shadows dance on the wall. Michael had assumed Christopher would be found by a colleague who’d raise the alarm, though not out of concern. Michael imagined that Dr. Lawrence would miss an appointment and the irate patient would kick up a stink when their lips or tits weren’t filled, or whatever other pointless procedure they were there to spend their money on. But maybe the rich didn’t do such things on a Sunday. Maybe wealthy doctors were able to spend Sundays doing things like yachting. Michael really should’ve considered this before, but how would he know about these things? He worked in a 7-11. But, as they say, you live and learn.

>   Michael watched as images of the building flashed up on screen. They hadn’t released details of Christopher yet, but police had mentioned the victim’s ex-wife had been the one to find him. Michael smiled at that. He knew about the ex-wife. Victoria. Another surgeon, though she was less prominent than her husband. Christopher had told Michael about Victoria. How they’d divorced a couple of years earlier. How most people thought they just fell out of love, or perhaps that the strain of such high-pressure jobs had driven them apart.

  Even Victoria believed this story. But Michael knew better. The marriage had ended because Christopher was gay. Not that he ever used the word. Michael assumed the good doctor would’ve been stuck in the closet for the rest of his life, had it lasted. It was sad really. Here was a man who had so much to offer and yet, he couldn’t bear to live as he wanted. So he hid in dingy anonymous bars, looking for dates to take home where, for a lot of money a month, he could come and go without any prying eyes.

  But that wasn’t why Michael had chosen him. He wasn’t homophobic. He’d slept with Christopher, as he had with others. And it wasn’t unpleasant. Maybe he was gay too, he wasn’t sure. He’d enjoyed men and women in the past. But now it was all about the project. The sex was incidental, nothing more than a means to an end.

  No, he’d chosen Christopher because of his job. He’d read up on him, as he had with the others. Here was a man, a brilliant surgeon, who could’ve done amazing things. He could’ve changed lives. Really changed lives. Not making rich people uglier. It was a waste, and Michael hated waste. Especially wasted talent. Talent wasn’t something everyone had and those who did, should use it. Christopher Lawrence wasted his talent, just like the others.

  Michael turned up the volume as the detective spoke. Michael was familiar with Nick Kelly. How could he not be? Michael wondered what Nick’s talent was. He certainly seemed to enjoy the limelight and the TV stations seemed keen on giving him as much exposure as possible. Maybe that was his talent, in which case, Michael would likely never be caught. It was rare that people had more than one talent.

  The reporter asked if the latest killing was linked to the others, and Michael felt his heart flutter. He’d seen the tabloids, heard the “experts” on the news. People were putting it together. His work was beginning to be recognized. And yet the police seemed to have little idea. It was irritating, to say the least. Nick Kelly was using Michael’s work to shine a light on himself. But what about the project? Why wasn’t he mentioning that? Was it possible the police didn’t see it? Hadn’t worked it out? Could they really be so stupid? So… uncultured?

  Then Michael realized they were holding back. Keeping the details to themselves. Maybe they thought they were antagonizing him by doing so. They would assume he was seeking attention and, okay, maybe he was, just a little. But the time for attention would come later. When he was ready. When he was done. All they were doing by keeping the details to themselves was making life easier for him. If people weren’t warned, how would they know to fear him?

  Michael turned off the TV. He should get some rest but he was still on a high. He’d been so worried it would go wrong and he only had one shot at it. But he needn’t have been concerned. Everything went as it should. It was almost perfect. He was better than he knew. He shouldn’t doubt himself; doubt is poison to an artist.

  One of his teachers had told him that. One of the only useful things Michael had taken from art school. He wished he’d never bothered enrolling. If anything, it stunted his growth as an artist instead of letting him flourish. He’d been so happy when he’d got in, he’d only wished his mother could’ve lived to see it. She would’ve been proud, unlike his father who suggested Michael should get a real job. But Michael followed his dreams. And then his dreams were shattered.

  Failed.

  He’d failed art school. Or at least according to those teachers who were so successful in their own careers as artists that they were teaching in second-rate schools. Their idea of art was very different to Michael’s. And though he tried to fit in with their conventional methods, it never quite worked. He could copy perfectly, his technique way above his classmates, so much so, someone once suggested a career in forgery. But perfect technique is not enough. Art needs heart and soul, both of which Michael lacked, according to his teachers.

  A project in the final year demanded creating something from a found object. Michael knew exactly which object he would use. The skeleton which hung in the studio, his teacher’s prized possession. Michael took it, placing it in the foyer early one morning, arranging it with a cigarette to resemble Van Gogh’s Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette. They accused him of lacking creativity. But it was far better than the dozen other projects made up of garbage that represented man’s wasteful nature.

  Michael left the school, angry and humiliated. He was a failure. He’d failed his mother. He’d proven his father right. Michael put thoughts of art behind him and got a real job. But it didn’t last. He had a calling and he had a talent. He just had to figure out a way to use it.

  And one day he did. Yes, he repeated himself, which is a sin in art, but the skeleton in the school foyer was a trial run, a sketch before the real painting is begun.

  He’d considered creating it from scratch but it would prove to be too difficult. Besides, he wasn’t sure he had the stomach for it at the time. Funny how things changed, how experience lets us grow. But at the time he needed a model and he wanted the real thing. So he found himself a cemetery and started digging.

  People assumed it was a prank at first, until the desecrated grave was discovered and the bones identified. There was a little uproar that someone could be so heartless, but it didn’t last long. Soon after, the taking of an actual life became more important and Michael’s project was forgotten. But he’d gotten a taste for public art and wanted more. Only this time he would have to do more preparation, more research, to make sure it was perfect. Technique and creativity working in harmony.

  He looked at the photos on his wall, the concrete proof of his work. He wondered if the police would ever realize that first project was his too, if he’d ever get credit for it. Because that was all an artist ever wanted. Credit for his work. Plus a little adoration.

  5

  Nick

  Nick yawned as his boss, Lieutenant Brian Lynch, paced at the front of the room, going over the case with the team. It seemed pointless to Nick; they’d already gone over it time and again, but as they had no further leads, at least it gave them all something to focus on. Lynch was a big believer in repetition bringing forth results. At least that’s what he told them. Whether it worked was another matter.

  ‘Jonathan Lauder, fifty-eight,’ Lynch said, pointing at the photo of the man when he was still alive rather than the less flattering post mortem image. ‘Journalist and prominent member of an anti-capitalist group. Stabbed and left in his bathtub, holding a note.’

  Nick recalled walking into that scene. His first thought, on seeing the note in the man’s hand, had been suicide, or at least a staged suicide. It was only on closer inspection of the note that they realized that was not the case. Nick hadn’t recognized what he was seeing, but then neither had anyone else. It was only when someone used Google to translate the note, which was written in French, that they made the connection. The note read: Given that I am unhappy, I have a right to your help. As well as the translation, Google provided the information that it was from a painting by Jacques-Louis David named The Death of Marat. Further digging revealed Marat to be a radical journalist from the French Revolution. Suddenly the death of this middle-aged man became more interesting.

  They questioned the man who’d found Lauder, another member of the group and a former lover of Lauder, but the man had an alibi and seemed to know less about art than Nick did.

  ‘Almost two months later,’ Lynch went on, ‘Irene Okafor, forty-two, found in her apartment. Strangled then decapitated, her head was placed on a pillow in front of a painted backdrop copied fr
om Paul Gauguin’s Arii Matamoe.’

  Nick’s main memory of that scene was the stink of vomit as he’d climbed the stairs. One of Irene’s colleagues had gone looking for her when she hadn’t turned up at the community center she managed. He’d somewhat disturbed the crime scene with the large volume of vomit the sight of her mutilated body had brought on. But beyond the stench, Nick remembered the strange electricity that had run through him once he’d taken it all in. It had to be connected to Lauder’s murder, and it was likely there would be more to come.

  ‘Third was Olly Richardson-Harris, nineteen,’ Lynch said. ‘Stabbed and posed naked in front of a backdrop. Later identified as The Death of Young Bara, also by Jacques-Louis David.’

  Olly had recently left the army after attempting suicide and had been working for his father. Despite this, Olly’s body wasn’t found for almost two weeks. It was only when a neighbor complained about the smell that he was found. His father assumed Olly had gone off on another of his “jaunts”.

  ‘Which brings us to our latest victim, Christopher Lawrence, forty-one. Cosmetic surgeon. And we’re all aware what happened.’

  Nick caught Dan’s smirk. Apparently Lynch took in the scene at Christopher’s apartment before quickly leaving, looking a little green. This was a man who’d been a detective for over thirty years. But autopsies had never been his cup of tea.

  ‘We already know this is the same person. Almost certainly male. But we still have nothing. No witnesses. No CCTV. No link whatsoever between the victims or the murders themselves,’ Lynch said, sighing. He liked order. He liked patterns. And this guy was giving them nothing. Lynch turned his back on them and studied the board.