He looks at me blearily, unwilling or unable to follow my verbal repartee. He just shakes his head. “I didn’t take nothing.”
“What were you putting back?”
“Welding torch.” His voice has taken on a sullen note.
“Wasn’t that missing when I talked to you last?”
He cracks his neck from side to side, not answering.
“Did you maybe borrow it, for a project or something, and then need to return it when you were done?”
He looks suspicious, but his brow clears. “Yeah. That’s it.”
“What did you need a welding torch for?”
“Art project.”
“Can you show me?”
“Wasn’t mine.”
“Whose then?”
“Friend.”
“So, you borrowed a welding torch for a friend to use in an art project. She gave it back to you, and you snuck it back in to the toolshed. Is that how it went down?”
“He.”
“What?”
“My friend is a he.”
Ye gods. “Okay, then, he. Is that how it went?”
Not the brightest tool in the shed, is he? Maybe that’s why he needs a torch. To light the way.
Jason nods, digging his fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, and scratching as though beset by fleas.
“That was nice of you. But did your friend know you could get in trouble for doing what you did?”
Jason shrugs.
“Why can’t your friend buy his own welding torch?”
Jason shrugs again.
I sigh. “Listen. Jason. You’ve already gotten fired for this little stunt. It sounds to me like your friend hasn’t been much of a friend at all. Suppose you tell me who put you up to this?”
Morganstern’s face settles into the stubborn mask that I know all too well from past perps who didn’t want to cooperate, whatever was in their best interests. I’d gone after him like ‘the Man’ and that’s how he was reacting.
Smarten up, Lake. Let me take over, why dontcha?
In your dreams, Zoe.
C’mon. At the end of the day we’re one and the same. Get used to it.
I turn away from Jason for a moment, stomach roiling. But she — I — she is right. Zoe is part of me, an aspect of my psyche that I’d called into being when I’d accepted the undercover assignment. I can’t just dismiss her as a figment of my imagination. Her traits are my own, seamy side up.
When I turn back to face Jason, Zoe looks out of my eyes.
“Listen, fuckhead,” she begins.
He glares and pops his knuckles. “It’s Jason.”
“Whatever. Listen up. I’m not a cop, get it? I’m not bound by their rules. So don’t mess with me.” She flips the edge of my blazer back to reveal the but of my gun. “I’m looking for who killed Victoria. You care about that, don’t you?” Zoe steamrolls over his stammered reply. “Forget about what you think you owe your fake friend. He’s hanging you out to dry, unless you roll on him first. So, give. Who wanted the welding torch?”
He hems and haws, but in the end he gives Zoe what she wants.
A name: Eric North.
CHAPTER THIRTY
CLICKETY-CLACK. I finally put it together.
Welding torch. Arson. Disgruntled artist. Eric North.
My memory of murder.
I know he killed Victoria, but what about Daniel?
Do people really burn buildings down, or kill someone, because that someone had sold their painting without asking? That seems like over the top narcissism, or just plain craziness. All these are the acts of someone in the throes of a deep and corrosive rage. A person who has to resort to destruction because they feel so threatened, or so disrespected, or so angry they have to lash out like an avenging angel. Is that North?
The only way I know to figure that out is to confront him directly. Confront him, and goad him, and see if that destructive tendency reveals itself. Not a great idea — certainly not a safe idea, but I don’t know what else to do. The police think Victoria’s death was an accident; they aren’t going to pursue any leads I give them. So I go by his studio, hoping to find him there. Upon arrival, I start recording with my phone nestled in the breast pocket of my blazer.
When I open the door, the first thing I see is his back. But he isn’t alone. A young woman stands in the nude, cradling a large pinkish conch shell, looking out into the middle distance. The artist stands behind an easel, a canvas slashed with color. Although the background is abstract, the image of the woman is emerging.
He turns at the sound of the door, emitting an audible sigh. “Audrey. What do you want now? I’m busy.”
“Just a few more questions, Mr. North.”
I think he’s going to refuse, but he looks back to his model and says, “Take five.” She stretches like a cat, puts down the conch and pulls on a flowered silk robe.
“I’m going out for a ciggie, Eric. Back in a few.”
When she’s gone, the artist frowns. “I really can’t take the time to talk with you, so make it quick.”
“Okay. Why did you kill Victoria Harkness?”
The tension in the room rises, like the silent twanging of a string, reverberating throughout the sunlit space. He blinks, slowly, his hand tightening on the brush.
He says, after too much delay, “Why do you think I did?”
Even if I hadn’t had the vision, even if I hadn’t made the links through Jason, I would have known then. I expected denial, outrage, disbelief, all the reactions of someone falsely accused, or someone seeking to emulate them.
“Because she made you angry.”
He actually laughs. He throws back his head, opens his arms as though to embrace the world, widens his stance, and laughs long and loud. Again, a thoroughly fake performance. But not evidence.
“Audrey, if I went around killing everyone who pissed me off, there would be a lot fewer people in the world.”
“Why did you burn down the church?”
“What church?”
“Don’t play games.”
“Are you talking about the Church of the Spirit? I heard about the fire on the radio. Terrible. Someone might have been killed.” And he looks directly at me.
I feel
