Very carefully, they clipped the twine that wrapped it up and then opened up the paper wrapped around it. Each piece was sprayed and checked for prints. Nothing was found. Every corner and crease was checked, and finally they turned their attention to the box itself. Nothing was found on the outside, but they kept on working.
Finally the forensic guy said, “It’s clear too.” He opened the box carefully. The smell immediately wafted toward them. Only this time it smelled of formaldehyde. “He’s changing his preserving methods,” the forensic tech said. “This time it isn’t Ivory Snow. That’s definitely a preservative, like formaldehyde.”
“That’s used in all kinds of things, isn’t it?” Richard asked.
“Yes,” he said, “it is.”
“So it’s not that unusual to have.”
“Nope.”
“I gather the other method didn’t work very well.”
“Or this is a particularly interesting piece,” he said, as he studied it.
“What is it?”
“Another chunk of skin and fat. But this time the artist’s signature is on it.”
Richard stared at it and realized for the first time that she signed each of her pieces, even the body art. That fascinated him too. He took a photo of it, shook his head, and said, “That’s not what she’ll want.”
“How did it arrive at the building?” Andy asked.
“A courier,” he said. “He’d been slipped twenty bucks to deliver it.”
“Right. Of course. We need to track him down.”
“I’m already working on it,” Richard said, in a hard voice. Just then his phone rang; it was the doorman from her building.
“The courier is here.”
“Hold him there,” Richard said. “I’ll be there in five.” He turned and said to Andy, “We’ve got the courier.” And with that, he bolted, Andy close on his heels.
*
He didn’t know why he felt compelled to share his work with her. Maybe because she’d been so generous sharing hers with everybody else. He didn’t know if she would appreciate what he’d done.
But it was something to see her signature and to see her work as he developed his own skills, which were slow to come, but he would give himself time. He could recreate her masterpieces too. To think that she could take a van Gogh and put it on the body model was absolutely unbelievable.
It took body-painting to a whole new level. One that he appreciated and yet, at the same time, admired and resented. There, he’d said it. He resented her because she could do it so easily, so flawlessly, so effortlessly. He’d stood there watching her, as she stroked a great big six-inch-wide paintbrush. She saved the fine details for the end, but, even then, she managed to do it with big four-inch-wide brushes. He’d been amazed at the contrast because then, when she worked on the body model, she did it with tiny brushes. It was a skill he knew he would take years to refine. But he was working on it.
He kept bolstering himself up with that. He was working on it. He settled back and smiled at his latest attempt. It was close, surely it was close. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and lifted it in the air, and said, “Salud.” It made him feel like he wasn’t so alone when he shared his skills with her too. And he took a sip of his whiskey.
*
Naomi woke up, and the inside of her mouth was thick, plugged with something. Her jaw throbbed, as if she’d been slammed with a fist. She twisted, shifting her body, but it wouldn’t move. She laid back, wondering what the hell had just gone on. She opened her eyes, and darkness was all around her. In the far corner was a small task light, and she could see somebody working away over there. She spat out whatever was in her mouth and said, “What’s going on? Where am I?”
“You’re my visitor,” he said. “My guest. Just lie there quietly. I’ll get to you eventually.”
“Quietly?” She pulled at her hands and realized that she couldn’t get free. She was tied up. Not only was she tied up, but she was tied up, nude, and her arms and legs were spread wide on a weird frame.
And some of her body had been painted while she had been unconscious.
Chapter 20
Cayce opened her apartment door and asked the guard, “Do you know if they located the courier?”
He looked at her in surprise. “They just told me that they have him downstairs.”
“Perfect,” she said. “I want to see him.”
“Oh no, you don’t,” he said, immediately putting an arm across the front door. “You’re not going outside.”
“Seriously? Am I a prisoner?”
“No, you’re not a prisoner,” he said, “but my job is to keep you safe and to keep you here.”
“Says you,” she said. “Why don’t you come down with me then?”
He frowned at her.
“Well, I’m going,” she said. “So you’ll either come along, or you won’t.”
He rolled his eyes.
She stopped, nodded, and said, “Yes, I’m one of those women. I’m difficult and obnoxious, and I like to get my own way.”
He laughed. “But you stay at my side.”
She nodded. “Fine.”
They took the elevator down. In the front lobby, she saw the same courier she’d seen many times before. “Hey, Lenny. How are you doing?”
He looked at her. “I don’t know what’s got everybody rattled,” he said, “but, when it came to that last parcel I gave you—”
“Don’t worry. It’s part of a police investigation,” she said comfortably. “How is Trixie?”
“She’s doing good,” he said. “So is the baby.” He beamed with paternal pride.
“Of course.” She smiled. “So, who gave you that parcel?”
“A guy at the pizza shop. He gave me twenty bucks to deliver it, and I was coming this way anyway. It’s an easy twenty bucks.”
“Do you remember who it was?”
“The guy at the counter,” he said, “but it wasn’t from him. It was given to him by somebody who was getting it to
