Through The Grinder

bars of the stool like a teenager in an episode of Leave it to Beaver. “A good Kona, or a Blue Mountain would be great about now, but I’ve been having trouble sleeping, so no caffeine after six p.m. My friends say I should switch to decaf, but I’d just as soon skip my evening cup as resort to such desperate measures. The poet Dante forgot to write about that ring of hell reserved for those who oppose caffeine.”

I laughed out loud. My god, I found myself thinking, if I hadn’t been told he was a killer, he’d be a man after my own heart.

“My sentiments exactly,” I told him. “I’m a bigger coffee afficionado than you could possibly imagine, but I have to admit that this tea is delightful.”

“I bought it in Chinatown, a little store on Mott Street called Wen’s Importing. I won’t touch anything other than leaf.”

I scanned Seth Todd’s work area. It was, as far as I could see, a typical artist’s studio. Tubes and jars of paint. Brushes. Pencils. Canvas and paper. There were some pen-and-ink and pencil sketches tacked to another easel. Human studies, mostly. Faces and figures, several portraits obviously drawn from life — none of them slashed or stabbed or brutalized in any way. But my eyes were constantly drawn back to the large red canvas that dominated the room.

“That’s a powerful painting,” I said.

“Thank you,” he replied, his eyes watching me. “It was commissioned for the foyer of the Seattle-based software firm, Gordian Incorporated. Their brand new headquarters building was designed by Scott Musake and Darrel Sorensen. Really amazing.”

He spoke about several other commissions — for the Tokyo headquarters of an electronics firm, a skyscraper in Sri Lanka, and the grand ballroom of a Paris hotel still under construction. He also managed to drop the fact that his work was displayed in several museums and galleries around the world.

Though he came on a little strong, I found Todd’s enthusiasm for his art and the design work of others infectious. He was a serious painter, but one concerned with his own notoriety, too. Some would probably be bothered by his ambition, but I found it honest and refreshing — at least he wasn’t hiding what he wanted out of life from anyone.

“So,” he said at last. “You’re here about my WTCC submission?”

I nodded, hoping my lie would hold up under scrutiny.

“I don’t judge the submissions, of course,” I said, playing for time. “I don’t even get to see them. I merely conduct an interview. We try to screen every artist and designer who wishes to be involved in this important project.”

“I was expecting a man,” Todd said. “A fellow named Henderson. A critic who used to write for Art Review.”

“Ah, yes. Well, we felt that Mr. Henderson had too heavy a hand to deal with certain artists, so I volunteered to fill in for him.”

“I’m delighted you did, Clare,” Todd said, his pale blue eyes staring into mine. “Henderson panned one of my shows, and I didn’t think I would get a fair evaluation from the man.”

This was not quite the tantrum Torquemada hinted had occurred. It wasn’t that Todd had something against men, it was more like he had something against this particular man. But, to be fair, it sounded more like Todd was just being protective of his own work and reputation, and he spoke about the issue with such genuine sincerity that I believed every word he said.

It was disturbing in a way, but it was hard for me to see this man as the same one Torquemada had described.

“So why do you want your work to be displayed in the new World Trade Center?” I asked.

“Because it’s important,” Todd replied. “Millions of people will eventually walk through the doors of that complex, once it is completed. This new World Trade Center will become the commercial capital of the world, and a showcase of art and design. Not since Cheops built the Great Pyramid has an architectural project received such widespread international attention. What better place to showcase my artistic creations?”

“I…see.”

So far Seth Martin Todd sounded more like a huckster than a killer, and I was already convinced I’d reached another dead end in my quest to clear Bruce Bowman. Still, I pushed on.

“Your work has been sold through Death Row Gallery? By a Ms. McNeil. Sahara McNeil?”

Todd’s eyes hardened. “Ms. McNeil sold one of my paintings to a Japanese conglomerate. Why do you ask?”

I set my cup down.

“I guess you heard about Ms. McNeil? The accident yesterday morning?”

Seth Todd blinked. “No.”

“She was killed. Crushed under a sanitation truck in Greenwich Village.”

“And this has what to do with the World Trade Commission?”

“We like our prospective artists to have clean backgrounds,” I said as coolly as I could manage.

Todd leaned forward and set his own cup down.

“You already know about my background, or you wouldn’t be here, asking questions about a dead woman.”

“I know you were accused of murder.”

Todd snorted.

“Accused? No. I committed murder. I went up to my cabin in Vermont and found my wife making love to another man. I felt betrayed. I went a little crazy. I killed them both. Do you understand how it feels to be betrayed?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I do.”

“Then you understand.”

We sat in silence for a time.

“So you’re really here to see if I had anything to do with Sahara McNeil’s death?” Todd said.

He stood up and walked to his canvas. He stared at it, his back to me. “Did Torquemada send you? Did he say I was angry at Sahara, that I threatened her?”

“Did you threaten her?”

I watched Seth Martin Todd’s shoulders heave in a long sigh.

“I threaten a lot of people, Clare. I have a temper as you well know. People don’t like me when I’m angry.”

I stood up.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Todd,” I said.

He turned and faced me again. He was smiling.

“Come on, Clare. Ask me. That’s why you came here.”

I shifted uncomfortably. “Did you kill her, Seth?”

“No,” Todd said after a long pause. “I did not kill Sahara McNeil.”

I channeled Quinn, knowing that I would have to tell him about Todd unless I heard the right answers.

“Can you account for your whereabouts yesterday morning, between seven and ten a.m.?”

“Yesterday?” He laughed and went over to his desk. He returned with a video cassette. He handed me the plastic case and tapped it.

“Read the label.”

I did. It was the tape of an interview with Seth Martin Todd aired on MetroNY Arts, a cable access morning show. The interview was broadcast live from a Queens television studio at the time of Sahara McNeil’s death.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said. “Really.”

“God, I’m so embarrassed,” I found myself saying.

Seth Todd looked at me with wry amusement. “Don’t be, Clare. I get these kinds of questions all the time.”

“What? Someone asking you if you’ve killed again?”

“Okay,” he said. “Maybe not that one.”

I slipped back into my shearling. “You must know I’m not from the World Trade Center Commission,” I