“Charlie, wouldn’t the Bureau have known by the angle of the cuts if the wounds were self-inflicted?” Garcia asked.
“It was one of the first things I checked. The angle suggested another person, but we have to remember that Joanna was an artist.”
“All kind of speculative, isn’t it,” Fletcher said.
“It would be except for one thing. The one piece of evidence that ties everything together.”
“What’s that?” Sin asked.
“The Blake poems,” Charlie answered.
“But Vincent was the poetry professor,” Sin said.
“He was, and he was a huge fan of Blake’s Songs of Innocence, but he never liked his later work, Songs of Experience. He used to tell his students that those poems were the work of a mad man. A man who had seen too much pain and sorrow.”
“But those are the poems that our killer is quoting,” Sin said. She pulled her hair back, leaned against the desk, and started biting her lower lip. “How do you explain that our killings have come years after her death?”
“You’ve read that she was pregnant when she was found with Vincent, and that she miscarried from her injuries,” Charlie said. “Well, it seems this information came from Joanna, herself. She states she miscarried a few days after being released from the hospital. I haven’t been able to corroborate any of that information. I think you’re looking for Joanna/Miranda’s son.”
47
“That bitch thinks my art is shit,” she shrilled, “we will give her artwork so realistic, that it will be talked about for years to come. No one gets one over on me.”
Ash squeezed his eyes shut trying to drown out her constant droning. Please go away, he thought. I’ll do this one more thing and then I’m finished. No more.
He parked his van in the public beach parking lot and walked south towards the Fontainebleau. It didn’t take long for him to board Sin’s houseboat. He did what he came to do and walked off as if he belonged there.
As soon as he returned to the van, she started up again. “Now we’ll see who gets the publicity.” Her words turned to maniacal laughter as his trembling hand started the van.
He drove away feeling a slight sense of closure. Nothing more to do than go back home and wait for the newscast.
George was a mess when he left the meeting earlier that morning, but decided that he would no longer be a passive bystander. It was time to take matters into his own hands.
He thought back to all the torture and trauma that Miranda had caused him when he was younger and decided that only he could stop what had been happening.
Driving away from his home on the top floor of his gallery, he headed to the one place he thought Joel might be living; an apartment complex way past its prime in the heart of Coral Gables. By the time he arrived, he was shaking in fear.
He sat in his Audi in front of the building, running through every reason to turn around and go home. He had almost convinced himself when he realized that he could never live a normal life until he knew the truth…until he faced his demons.
Entering the foyer of the building, he walked up to the receptionist and introduced himself as a friend of Joel’s and asked if he stilled lived there.
She appeared surprised to hear that Joel had a visitor. “It’s nice to know he has some friends,” she smiled. “I’ve worked here for a number of years and he hardly ever gets any visitors.”
George didn’t ask any questions, he just stood there waiting for her to allow him access.
“Hmm, that’s funny,” she said, “he’s not answering my call, but I know he’s up there. I just saw him walk in about fifteen minutes ago. Oh, well,” she shrugged, “he could use a nice surprise. He’s seems to be down in the dumps lately.” She beamed a full-wattage smile and buzzed the inner door open. “His apartment is number 204, second floor. Go on up. It will do him good to see a friend.”
George thought about turning and running from the building, but he gathered his courage and walked through the open door. His heart was pounding as he rode the elevator to the second floor. As the doors slid open, the air smelled sterile, like a hospital. By the time he reached Joel’s apartment, his heartbeat was so rapid, he thought the organ might burst from his chest. From the hall, he could hear the TV inside. It was loud. From the voices, he knew that Joel was watching Action News, the twenty-four-hour cable news station.
He knocked on the door and waited. No one answered. He knocked again with more force.
“Go away,” he heard Joel yell.
George took a deep breath and stood steadfast. “It’s George,” he yelled back. “We need to talk.”
He heard the television being turned down and footsteps nearing the door. “George who?” came a whisper of a voice.
“George, from school; from Water’s Edge. Do you remember me?”
He heard the sound of a deadbolt being unlocked and a chain being released.
The door opened and he stared directly into the eyes of the devil.
48
Ashley was frantic. She had been calling her brother for the past two hours with no luck. After she and Anthony had left the FBI that morning, she spoke to George and didn’t like his tone. It was the same voice he’d used as a kid when he would stand up to Miranda.
That choice had never ended well.
Panicked, she drove to his home, but there was no answer. She checked in at his gallery and was told that he hadn’t been in all day.
Even Bobbi seemed frightened. “This is the first time in like ever that he hasn’t at least called,” she said. “I mean, you know he’s a type A, or, is it B? Anyway…personality, I can never keep those two straight, but you know what I mean. He’s a control freak.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Ashley
