The two men struggled in a tangle of bare and fabric-covered limbs as the furious Nathan viciously fought against Marc’s muscular assault.
A screaming, dark-haired figure in a crimson gown emerged from the fleeing crowd and dashed for the struggling men. Amanda yelled and lurched forward. Nathan swung the gun toward Christine, his face a mask of rage.
Behind the advancing fury appeared the gasping Professor Angeli and the wildly gesticulating Mr. Wilde. A duplicate of the large artist, in contemporary clothes, loomed behind them.
The bizarre thought crackled through Amanda’s brain that since he’d never hurt any of them that maybe he could help. She grabbed Christine’s gown and yanked her out of the way as a sharp crack sounded again followed by the whiz of a bullet cutting the air near their heads. An astonished Christine spun into Amanda’s arms. Amanda whirled her around and shoved her to safety back toward the group of men.
Marc grabbed for the smoking firearm with both hands. With his free arm, Nathan punched the naked private investigator in his unprotected pelvis. Marc gasped in agony and momentarily loosened his grip as the enraged Renaissance figure savagely twisted from under him and struggled to his knees. Viciously, Nathan swung the gun toward Marc’s head. Amanda screamed and hurtled toward them.
The metal barrel cracked against “Antonio’s” dark curls and with a grunt Marc fell back. Amanda raced forward with all her might, the light-weight skirt dragging her back as though through mud.
Nathan shoved the barrel against Marc’s forehead and grabbed the tangle of curls to hold his victim’s head steady. The wig came away in his hand. With a shocked look he catapulted backward onto the asphalt. The gun snapped from his hand and bounced away, spinning in circles.
Amanda grabbed for the whirling metal. Her foot caught in the swirling fabric around her legs and with a lurch her foot knocked the gun away as she fell.
Streaking in the bright city night lights, the small firearm slid brightly across the rough darkness of the asphalt, slowly circling as it bumped over a rise in the road and clanged over a steaming manhole cover. It continued on its route toward the wild-eyed professor. Behind him loomed the large dark figure.
Marc lunged for the backpack as Nathan sprawled backward. He yanked the dark nylon bag from the falling figure, who dropped with a thud, his head hitting the pavement.
The large shadow behind the professor mirrored the crouching stance of the terrified little man as the mesmerizing metal slid to a stop at his feet.
At the duo’s side, Mr. Wilde struggled to restrain a shouting, struggling Christine.
Professor Angeli- the dark figure’s large head pressed urgently close to his ear- stooped for the gun.
He raised it in his trembling hands toward the figures in the center of the street.
A sprawled Amanda.
A stunned Marc.
A groggy Nathan.
A large hand reached from behind to steady the small shaking arms as rough lips continued to instruct him rapidly at the side of the elder artist’s face.
Professor Angeli shot Nathan. The costumed body fell back on the street, instantly still.
With an unearthly howl of horror, the elder artist whirled on his nemesis who melted into the surging crowd.
The professor put the gun to his temple and fired.
Amanda heard no sound, no ear-splitting crack, no screeching traffic, no shouting voices, no police sirens nor did she hear the horrified shout from Marc as he scrambled toward the falling body.
All she heard was the unearthly, unbelieving scream of her own voice.
Chapter 19
POLICEMEN were everywhere. Deafening ambulances shrieked to a halt under blinding, flashing red lights. Gawking faces hovered in the background as hulking men shoved glass-eyed video cameras at Amanda, Marc, Christine and Mr. Wilde.
Nathan and Professor Angeli were quickly loaded onto stretchers. Amanda begged to go with the professor but the police said no. She erupted in fury. Fought them. Kicked and screamed as Marc held her back and absorbed her flood tide of anger. He refused to react to the dreadful names she called him and the vicious accusations she threw until the flashing red lights and warbling sirens were gone and she was utterly spent.
Cops wrapped Marc in a blanket and they were all taken in ear-shattering, wailing police cars to the local station. More video cameras. Accompanied by big-faced male and female, television reporters desperately pleading and battling to get at them. Christine swung at the reporters. Mr. Wilde glowered. Marc was stony, buried in his blanket. Amanda was enraged. Until her emotions finally shut down and she became numb.
The cops found old sneakers and a pair of pants for Marc. He remained bare-chested under the blanket.
No one asked about the backpack he handed her, which she slipped on and wore as if she were a 60s Village hippy with her ripped, long skirt and glittering, dirtied bodice.
Marc explained to the police about the private posing session and the costumes. Nathan had stolen a valuable drawing and they had all given chase. The gun was Marc’s. Licensed. He was a private investigator and Nathan had stolen the gun. The detectives were used to dealing with the eccentricities of the artistic inhabitants of the Ansonia and accepted his explanation blandly and without question.
Marc continued that they could only assume the professor had been seized by a sudden desperation to come to the aid of the naked model when the gun fell at his feet and then, in a horrified realization of having actually shot someone, shot himself.
At Amanda’s insistence, the sergeant called the hospital.
Nathan was badly wounded, in Intensive Care but expected to survive. He might lose the use of his right arm… his drawing arm. Christine snorted it served him right and burst into sobs.
The professor was dead.
Considering the outcome, no one wanted to press charges. It was decided they could all be released in their own recognizance and would be called in for more questioning later. They must remain in Manhattan for the time being. The silent group returned to Mr. Wilde’s apartment.
They dressed in their own clothes and downed much-needed drinks. Amanda found it difficult to even swallow liquid.
Christine referred to Marc’s blond hair and his now-blue eyes. “I think we deserve to know what the hell is going on. And,” she added pointedly to Amanda, “why we weren’t let in on your little game.”
Christine was right. This whole thing had seemed like an exciting game to Amanda; a game that raised her adrenaline and made her seem more alive.
Marc explained to Christine the case involved international repercussions in the art world and hardly qualified as a “game”. He answered what questions he could and then asked Mr. Wilde for clarification of the assumptions he had already come to.
“Yes.” The older gentleman’s voice was tired and flat. “I gave the drawings to Angeli over a period of years. I thought he would be the one to best appreciate them.”
“And then, trying to mentor Kid Ass-hole,” Christine continued, bitterly, “Angeli gave them to Nathan, who sold them to Pinks who got them to the European fence and on the market.”
Wilde’s shoulders slumped lower. “It seemed such an innocent endeavor. Almost noble. To attempt to emulate the great master.” He turned his head away. “I also wanted to impress Angeli. His talent was always far greater
