headlines?’
‘Sure, run it.’
‘They found out that Elizabeth Seale was drinking in the Fullerton Lounge yesterday. We got a pretty firm memory from the bartender that she was talking to a man in the bar before she met a friend. The bartender said the guy hit on her so he didn’t know her. The guy drank a Black Russian, wore a black suit. He was also good- looking with a touch of grey hair. It could be him.’
‘Just like he did with Jessica Pascal. So let’s say Denise is right and he knew the first three, then ran out of victims or maybe he tried to date the next two and that changed things for him. He likes to interact with them. He gets a buzz out of it.’ Harper went across to the board. ‘Listen, Eddie, we need to know where he got to meet these three women, which might be where he’s scoping the next victims. We need to find out where he does his stalking.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Frick
November 21, 4.30 p.m.
Across town, after the day shift, Tom met Denise at the Frick. He wasn’t sure whether she thought he was uncultured and needed an injection of art or whether she was keen to pick his brains about the job.
Walking the east side of Central Park in the fall dusk was a pleasure anyway. The wealth of New York had lined these avenues with grand houses, beautiful gardens and a peacefulness that you couldn’t often find in the city.
The Frick was a New York treasure. A beautiful house that was now a museum and art gallery. Harper stood around staring at the visitors, trying to guess at their lives. It was hard to know. Creative types, rich types, students — people who didn’t do nine to five or shift work to make ends meet.
Denise arrived in a yellow cab. She was dressed in a long black coat with her fair hair loose about her shoulders.
‘You not tried dyeing your hair like the rest of New York?’ asked Harper. He’d read that morning that New Yorkers had given up being blonde since news of the killings had come out. Everyone was turning brunette.
‘Mine’s natural and I like not being taken seriously.’
Harper laughed. ‘What’s the idea with the museum?’
‘I was thinking about things. Thinking about Williamson’s murder.’
‘I was going over it myself. It’s cruel.’
‘Then I remembered something. Something I want to show you.’
They talked low as they went into the museum. It was quiet and hushed inside the beautifully ornate rooms. It was obvious that Denise spent some of her spare time in the Frick, as she moved purposefully through the rooms to one in particular.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘See if you can spot it.’
Harper looked around the room. Lots of pictures hung closely together. Harper didn’t know what he was looking for, so he moved slowly from picture to picture. Denise watched him closely. She was comfortable with Harper. He had a rare commodity: he didn’t interfere, he let you be. It was just a quality he had and it was something she liked about him.
Suddenly, Harper shouted out, ‘Fuck!’
A guard took a step into the room and hushed him severely. Harper apologized. He turned to Denise. ‘Is this why you brought me here?’
She nodded and moved over to his shoulder. They stared together at the picture.
A classical figure, muscled and toned, tied to a tree, stripped naked except for a loincloth. His face was turned upward towards the sky, his eyes transfixed in pain and hope.
Harper’s eyes dropped down his body. The first arrow went through his neck, there were two in his chest and another in his shoulder. His stomach was peppered with three and then one in his thigh.
‘You think the guy who killed Williamson was an art connoisseur?’
‘Dunno,’ said Denise. ‘I count seven arrows and I don’t like coincidences.’
‘You think there’s a connection?’
‘Read the label.’
Harper read the title and sucked in his breath. Sebastian was the name the American Devil gave himself on the phone. ‘You think he was making a reference?’
‘I think that an arrow is a strange way to kill someone.’
‘Good work, Denise. But what does it mean? You think he’s into art?’
‘He killed Williamson as if he was a martyred saint, he posed Elizabeth Seale like a nude. Amy and Jessica might reference paintings we don’t recognize.’
‘It’s worth looking into,’ said Harper. ‘If your idea is right and he knew the first three girls better than Jessica and Amy, then this might be something. We need to check up on their interest in art.’
They stood there shoulder to shoulder, staring at the Renaissance images of the martyred saint.
‘What’s the significance of St Sebastian?’ said Harper after a while.
‘His motto is Beauty constant under torture. Our killer thinks he’s a martyr. He thinks he’s the one who suffers most of all.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Dr Levene’s Apartment
November 22, 6.00 a.m.
Denise was woken at 6 a.m. by a persistent knocking at the door. She was dreaming of a prairie. A huge open prairie. Her father was visible but only at a distance. He was calling something that she couldn’t understand. As she squinted into the sunlight to discern what he was saying, his image zoomed with frightening suddenness and she could see that he was calling her name and sinking into the ground.
‘Denise, Denise, Denise.’
Her eyes opened. Her left arm moved out to her bedside cabinet and hit Daniel as she flicked the switch. A low orange glow lit a corner of the room. Daniel groaned and shrugged. Fahrenheit was lying flat out across the foot of the bed and hadn’t stirred. A great guard dog he’d turned out to be. Denise got up and stood in a vest and shorts, on the carpet. She could hear the voice at her door now. It was difficult to discern, but her name was being repeated in a loud whisper.
‘Denise, Denise, Denise.’
At her door, she took the red towelling robe and put it on. She wasn’t afraid for her safety. How could she be? Her man was asleep in the bedroom and her guard dog was slumbering beside him.
As she reached the narrow corridor that led from her living room to the apartment door, she thought she recognized the voice.
She relaxed. Who else would it be? The door opened and she looked down at the crouching figure of Tom Harper calling through the keyhole. Behind her, Fahrenheit appeared around the door of the bedroom, walked across and stared quizzically at Tom.
Tom saw Denise’s legs first, a glimpse of her smooth tanned thigh between the ruby of her gown. He looked up. Her hair was forward on her face, messy from sleep. She had a cross look on her face.
‘Are you having a crisis?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘You want to come in?’
‘Sure.’
Denise turned and walked to the kitchen, leaving Tom to stand and enter by himself. He watched her walk.
