Artist (14 page)

“Oh, I appreciate it,” Flynn replied. “She has many fine qualities. In fact, I would say that she’s convinced me that wearing a seat belt is something I’ll be sure to recommend every time I do a traffic stop. I’ll be adamant about it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Slade said. “How does wearing a seat belt fit into the subject?”

“Seat belt effect,” Adan said promptly, moving over to the coffee machine. “When a woman wears a seat belt the strap running across her chest tends to highlight her …uh…figure. You’ve been off the street too long Slade.”

“Enough,” Dupond said, but he was smiling. “I’m glad to see you’re making productive use of your time here, Flynn. Anything that might even remotely relate to why you’re here?”

Slade picked up his notebook. “We’ve got one report of a guy hanging around the back of the married dorms. Sent it over to campus security so they’ll know. Another girl came in and said the guy that lives next door to her is “creepy” and we should check him out. Also, the traffic light on Franklin is too short and only lets two cars turn before going back to red.”

“You get the creepy guy’s name?”

“Nope. Got an address though.”

“Okay. Let the uniforms working the area know. If they get a look at him and he fits the description we’ll talk to him.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Slade said, “about the whole thing with the initials. So far, you’ve managed to keep that under wraps. Maybe you should let it out. It might mean something to somebody.”

Adan answered that. “Or, we might get a copycat. It’s about the only thing we’ve got that nobody else knows.”

“Sooner or later it’s going to get out though,” Dupond said. “Someone at the coroners office will make a few bucks off a reporter or one of us will slip. I’ll think about it.”

“How much longer you gonna keep us here?” Flynn asked.

“A few more days,” Dupond said, “Unless things start to move the University will get antsy.”

A man came in the door. He was wearing tan slacks with a white dress shirt, a Rolex watch on his wrist. Dupond remembered him from the meeting with the Dean but couldn’t pull the name right away.

“Morning, gentlemen,” he said. “Everything alright in here?”

Slade made the introductions. “Dupond, Professor Watt. Professor, this is Detectives Dupond and Adan. You know Flynn.”

“Yes,” Watt said, “We met the other night.” Dupond shook hands, remembering Watt hadn’t been too happy about having the police on campus. He seemed alright with it now. Even friendly.

“The professor here is the one that got us the coffee machine,” Slade said. Watt waved it off.

“Just an extra one I had in my office. I was passing by and thought I’d stop in and see how things are going? Anything helpful coming from all this?”

“We’ve got a couple of things we can look into,” Slade said.

“Excellent. Well, I’ve got a class in ten minutes. If you gentlemen need anything let my assistant or myself know.”

“Kind of a fancy-schmancy boy, but he’s alright,” Slade said when Watt left. “He keeps us in coffee, though, stops in once in awhile.”

“Alright,” Dupond said.

It was afternoon before Cassie finally got through
to Dupond, almost ten o’clock at night in Paris. The sun was still out though, something she couldn’t get used to. It was throwing her off, eating dinner at nine and going to be with light still coming through the window made her feel like a shift worker. Her flight out was at eight in the morning and she wanted to get some sleep. A cab would be waiting, the hotel assured her.

“Hey, you’re a tough guy to catch,” she said when Dupond finally answered.

“Hey there. How’s Paris? You should try calling me at night, on my home number.”

“By the time you get home it’s the middle of the night here,” Cassie said. “Paris is seven hours ahead.”

“Gotcha. So, how is it? You getting any time to sightsee?”

“Yep. I’m flying back tomorrow. Today I saw the Eiffel Tower, did some shopping.”

“Good. That was quick. Work must have gone well.”

Cassie hesitated for just a second. “Yeah, no big deal. How are things on your end?”

“About the same,” Dupond said. “We’re looking at some people, working the phone book using anyone with the initials CLV. The University thing isn’t really working out, nothing there but at least we haven’t had any more murders.”

“Hey, why don’t we take a day when I get back? Or just a morning? We can go fishing or something. Just you and me.”

“Sounds good. I’ll call my Dad and make sure he’s not using the boat. Today’s….Tuesday. Thursday morning?”

“That will work. I get in about two on Wednesday so I’ll just head home. You want to pick me up in the morning.”

“I got a better idea,” Dupond said. “I’ll get you at the airport and we’ll drive across the lake to my place. We can fish off the dock at night and take the boat early in the morning, run out along the Hwy 11 bridge. Might pick up a few trout by the trestles.”

“That’s a date,” Cassie said. “Hey, I missed you. We’ve got to come back here together sometime. It’s not all that great when you’re by yourself.”

“I’ve missed you too. Prepare to be outfished. See you at the airport.”

Alone in bed, eight thousand miles from the Artist, Cassie went on the hunt. She was working in unfamiliar territory, with no markers, no photographs, no artifacts to use that would enable her to hone in on the killer. He was out there though, waiting.

She lay on the bed, crossed her hands across her stomach, closed her eyes. One floor below, the waiter laughed, a breeze blew in the open window and Cassie latched on to it, a physical sensation she could use to carry herself.  Her mind’s eye lifted, hovered. Then the rush began, a tearing away from her body into the tunnel, carrying her. She was conscious, though out of control. The beginning of the separation was something over which she had no control, that would come later, and always terrified her, like being cast loose into a sea. She took another deep breath and let go. A kaleidoscope goes off.

Shift
. The boy is skinny as a rail and huddled into a corner, his head ducked down below his knees.  A man stood over him, swinging a belt. Cassie watched as the belt came down, again and again, slap slap. The boy cowered, trying to pull into himself into a shell as the leather beat into him. Behind the man a woman appeared, her dress hanging in tatters. She clamped herself onto the man’s back. The scene was silent, played out in Cassie’s mind, mouth opened on the players in silent screams. The man turned, shoved the woman violently, and swung the belt again, the flat hide catching the woman broadside on the face.

Shift
. The boy, older now, carrying vacant victim eyes, stares out the window of a room. Snow is piled on the window sill. In front of him, a blank notebook. He leans over , begins to draw with a pencil. From somewhere comes the sound of a door slamming and he begins to cry.

Shift
. Nightime on a narrow street. Water runs in the cobbled gutter, faded gray stones make up the walls around her. A man is walking, long strides, head down, coat flapping around his knees. A match flares in a doorway and he stops. Cassie can’t see, tries to move closer, finds herself rooted to the spot. The man passes the doorway, turns, retreat. A voice, a woman’s voice, touches the air around her, floating, changes pitch, frantic now. The man’s arm come up, reaching out.

Shift
. The woman is naked on a bed, arms tied to the bedpost, tape across her mouth. Her head turned to the side. Behind her, a man pumps frantically, spasms, reaches for a rope and wraps it around her neck, pulls.

Shift
. Three people on a beach. The bulky man Cassie recognizes, the man with the belt, and the woman, older now. The boy, too. He’s older too, walks with his shoulders slumped, eyes on the sand. The woman turns, says something, and the bulky man knocks her to the ground, kicks. The boy watches.

Shift
. A Paris street, Cassie recognizes it, Boulevard De Charrone. A girl and a young man, seated at a table outside a café. The girl picks up a glass, sips wine, laughs. The young man laughs with her. Cassie tries to move again, straining to see his face. He turns away, takes the girls hand and they walk away down the boulevard, a black balloon, death, hovers over the young man, just starting to wrap it’s tendrils around the girl.

Shift
. The young man, black balloon grown larger now, stands on a stage, a pointer in his hands. He slaps the stick against a painted surface. In front of him, row after row of blank faces sit motionless. Cassie strains to see his face but the whole scene is wrapped in gauze and creeping redness, a camera lens coated with Vaseline and blood. A figure emerges from the audience, descends the steps to the stage. The young man grows heavier before Cassie’s eyes. He’s aging, undergoing metamorphosis of some kind, the blackness grows larger yet. The figure from the audience kneels before him and the stick, which has undergone a metamorphosis of its own, becomes a machete.

Shift
. The bow of a boat cuts across smooth water, riding small waves. The horizon floats with the waves.

Shift
. Pictures adorn the walls of a long hallway, a double row of indistinct art. Cassie can move now, she’s free. At the end of the hall a crowd gathers and she heads that way. All eyes are turned to the canvas, low toned expressions of appreciation rolling from the crowd. The frame is gilt, carved into elaborate leaves and the canvas is blank white. The piece is huge, covering the wall from the floor to the ceiling and in the center, set against a stark white background, a white so pure it’s difficult to look at, is a girl. Ropes bind her wrists and ankles, the bonds disappearing into the white background. Her throat is mottled purple, her eyes stare out into the crowd. The rest of her is dead, the flesh gone blue-white, but the eyes are alive and find Cassie.

For Cassie, the flight out of Paris couldn’t come soon enough.

  She was maybe sixteen, Watt thought, already carrying the weight of the street on her face. Tangled hair, too much makeup, a pair of jean shorts that accented long legs dirty and bruised. Another gift. In the long nights he’d lain awake, listening to the tide roll in against the dock below, Watt pondered the problem. It came to him when he saw a news report about a killing in Paris, a shooting in one of his old haunts. Paris, of course. The streets of Paris where he began his journey. The Paris of his youth, where flush with money, he’d lain waste to more than one prostitute. They were simple to get, easy to dispose of. Watt headed for the French Quarter.

It was a Tuesday night, still early, and things were slow. Watt found a parking spot on Rampart, cruised past Maxwell where the music was already going but the bar was empty. Things wouldn’t start rolling for a few hours. I should have come later, he thought. Hanging around too early would only put him in front of people longer. He might be remembered. Better to come back later. Crossing Bourbon, Watt headed for Café du Monde, spent an hour drinking coffee. When he finished, it was full dark and The Quarter was starting to rip.

Bourbon Street was noisy, too crowded. Watt ducked in off a block, went into Houlihan’s, buying a Hurricane in a go cup. He got outside, walked down a block, poured half of it in the street. He wanted the cover, not the drink. Going back to Bourbon, he headed left for a block. The Dungeon was open and doing good business. One of the more eclectic places in the French Quarter, The Dungeon drew a heavy crowd, the kind of element that liked their music loud. A pair of tattooed bouncers sat on stools outside. Watt passed on the opposite side of the street, saw the girl coming. He weaved a little, took a sip of his drink, continued on. When he got within ten feet of her, he smiled. She picked up on it right away.

“Hey, Sugar, having a good time?” The voice was husky, a well practiced seduction floating in the air.
She was tall, thin framed, blonde hair fell across one eye.  She ducked into a shadowed doorway, pulling him by the arm.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “First trip to New Orleans, you know. But I can’t find my friends.” He tried to put a country twang in his voice, decided it wouldn’t be necessary, let it go, stumbled slightly again.

“I can be your friend. For a little while anyway, if you got some money.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Watt said, trying to look uncomfortable. “I don’t want to get lost. Besides, where would we go?”

“I got a place right around the corner. Take two minutes to get there.” She reached down, massaging him, leaned in close. “I’m the best thing you’re gonna find tonight. Your friends can wait a little bit.”

“Maybe,” Watt said. He pushed his crotch back at her, smiled. “That’s nice. How much are we talking?”

“My specialty is The French.” She ran her tongue out across her lips, drawing it out. “For you, twenty bucks. I’m the best.”

“Whoah. I bet you are. You can get me back right here afterwards? I don’t want to get too far away.”

“Believe me, Honey. When Sasha goes to work it don’t take long.” She took him by the arm.

A plank gate
, held by a thumb latch. Sasha hit the latch, opening the gate onto a courtyard, a brick wall on the left, a row of doors on the right. A single light over one of the doors was the only illumination. The girl snuggled in close, ran her hands over his ass, moving him along, all business now. She took a key from her pocket, opened the door. Watt followed her in.