Artist (23 page)

“Understood,” Cassie said. “If you want physical evidence, let’s get his medical records. Case should have a blood type from the fingernail scrapings he got from the boy in the French Quarter.”

“I already did that,” Dupond said. “While you were in France.”

“And?”

“They match,” Dupond said. “Type O-positive, same as Watt.”

“Well,”
Cassie said. “Get out of Dodge. Imagine that.”

“Yeah,
imagine that,” Dupond said.

The box was plain cardboard, sealed with packing tape.
Watt picked it up it, closed the door. He was two hours late, Dean Burke giving him a dark look as he passed the man in the hall. The box was waiting outside his door, Watt’s name written in the top corner in a feminine script, the letters perfectly formed in black, a line of red underneath for emphasis. A clear plastic sleeve on the side held a folded packing slip. Watt cut it open, unfolded the paper, found a note written in the same elegant hand.

Professor,

As you know, Vincent Van Gogh shot himself in the chest. Leon Bonvin hung himself from a tree. Rene Crevel used gas. Benigne Gagneraux jumped out of a window. Baron Jean-Antoine Gros drowned himself in a river. Constance Mayer slit her own throat. These are just a few suggestions to make things easier on yourself and everyone else. Or, I’ll do it for you.

I am coming.

No signature.

Inside the box, carefully wrapped in tissue paper,
was a single bullet. Watt locked his office door. When the phone began to ring, he ignored it.

“Didn’t leave at all. No lunch, no classes, no nothing. Flynn went up there with the coffee machine, you know, trying to get a look at him. Knocked on the door, no answer.” Slade said. “Finally, he came out about six o’clock, went right to his car, drove straight home. He’s been there ever since.”

“Pavone’s there?”

“Yep, I just talked to him over the radio. No movement. He says the lights are all on though and it’s what?” He looked at his watch. “Almost midnight. He’s up late.”

“He’s got to be getting fed up by now,” Cassie said. “Another call might push him over the edge.” She reached for the phone.”

“Who’s with Pavone?” Dupond asked.

“DeSalvo is in the Robert E. Lee parking lot.” Slade said.

“Who else?”

“That’s it. Clements had a family thing.”

Watt sat at his kitchen table. In front of him on the table were two rolls of duct tape and the folding knife from the box Cassie sent. The bullet was in his hand. He rolled the lead and copper slug between his fingers. Put it in the top pocket of his shirt. He was wearing his best suit, an Armani tie of blood red knotted at the throat, Aubercy shoes polished to a high gloss. The duct tape went into his coat, the knife into his left front pants pocket. The door was closing behind him when the phone began to ring. He let it close.

Salvador DeSalvo was a ten-year detective with aching feet, high blood pressure, and a bladder getting weaker by the year. Sitting in the pa
rking lot of the Robert E. Lee Theater wasn’t a bad gig though. He liked to watch the women going in and out, most of them young enough to be his daughter, and management liked the idea of a cop hanging around front. That meant free popcorn and drinks, and the use of the theater restroom when he felt the need. Between the popcorn and the drinks and the women, he felt the need about once every hour.

He checked his watch. It was getting on near midnight and the late movie, a computer ends the world trip called War Games, would be spilling movie patrons out into the lot in the next few minutes. After that, DeSalvo had a long night with nothing but empty streets and a tire to pee on. Better to take care of business now and pass on the drink refill. He keyed in his microphone, to let Pavone know.

“Mike”

“Yep,” Pavone came back. DeSalvo was always amazed how the man stayed awake, lying in a park. If he were to lie down, he’d be out like a light in five minutes.

“Takin’ five, Buddy. Be right back. I’ll have my handset.”

“Gotcha. Nothing’s going on anyway.”

DeSalvo locked the unit, twirling his keys as he went through the door of the theater. The kids behind the counter were already cleaning up. The bathroom was empty as the last few minutes of the movie played out.

All of a sudden, he was there. Pavone caught the flash of light as the door opened. He was in the park, leaning against a tree, when Watt came down, heading for his car on the street.

“Sal, Sal, he’s moving, he’s moving.” Pavone said, talking low into the handset.

“Goddamn it,” DeSalvo said. He stood up, struggling with his belt buckle. Pavone came over the mike again.

“Sal, where are you? He’s out. Pick him up when he comes past.”

DeSalvo finally found the handset. “I’m still in the building. It’s gonna take me a minute to get out there.”

“Hurry the fuck up. He’s almost at his car.” Pavone watched as Watt unlocked the door. The apartment sat o
n the main boulevard of West End, the only way in and out. Watt would have to go right past DeSalvo to make it out. That was a drive of less than a minute, Pavone figured, maybe only thirty seconds. DeSalvo probably wouldn’t make it. If Watt got loose, there would be hell to pay. Maybe he could hold him up long enough for DeSalvo to get his fat ass back to the car. If Watt got out the neighborhood, he could go anywhere, west into Metairie, east along Leon C. Simon. Hell, the interstate was three minutes south at this time of night. Pavone keyed his mike again. “I’m gonna try and stall him.”

Watt had the door open when Pavone called to him from across the street. “Hey, hey mister.” Pavone saw the man turn, look, start to get into the car. “Hey, hold up there, Buddy,” he called again.

The bum was yelling something, Watt didn’t catch it and it didn’t matter anyway. It was just a bum. He’d seen him sleeping in the park once or twice over the last two weeks, thought about calling the police, laughed at the idea. Now the man was saying something, ten feet away. Watt had one foot in the car.

“Buddy, help me out, huh?” the man said. Watt caught the odor of cheap wine coming off him, shook his head. “No money. Go away.”

  Watt was halfway in the car when the bum grabbed the door, preventing him from closing it. “Come on, man. I’m hungry. Really hungry. Couple of bucks, what do you say.” Reaching for the door, the bum’s coat fell open. Hanging on his belt was a radio, a looping length of wire wrapping itself up his side and behind his shoulder.

Cop, Watt thought. Jesus Christ, he’s a cop. How many weeks had the man been there, sleeping in the park, panhandling from the people in the neig
hborhood? What’s more, what had he seen? The idea exploded in Watt’s brain, enraged him. His keys were in his hands. The bum leaned in. “Mister?”

Watt’s right fist came all the way around, the point of a key protruding between the first and second finger, plunging the jagged edge into the cop’s eye. The man staggered back. He wasn’t feeling the pain yet, not yet, and he tried to collect himself. Watt kicked out, connected with the left knee, felt it buckle. Pavone screamed and Watt was on top of him, punching
and kicking. Pavone rolled into a ball, grabbing desperately for the microphone.

Sal DeSalvo was still running for the car, his belt flopping against the side of his leg, when the yelling started. He couldn’t make it out, Pavone screaming, sounded like someone else in the background.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” he said out loud. He was jabbing the key at the door. His handheld would only talk to Pavone. He had to get to the radio inside. Still, maybe he could get something out of Pavone.

“Mike, Mike, talk to me. What the hell’s going on. Mike?”

The radio blatted in his ear, went silent, blared again in broken staccato bursts of noise. DeSalvo felt his heart pounding, and amazingly, since he just left the theater, his bladder let loose with a trickle. Pavone screamed again in his ear.

Watt was standing now. T
he cop on the ground, bleeding out of his eye, rolled into a ball but was still yelling something into a microphone. Watt kicked him hard in the ribs, heard the air woosh out of his lungs, kicked him again. The cop groaned, tried to roll over. Watt kicked him in the head and the microphone fell out of his hands. On the ground was a pistol. Watt scooped it up, bludgeoning Pavone with the grip until he went limp. The car door beckoned. He couldn’t resist rolling over the cop’s legs as he pulled off.

“Get an ambulance there. Now.” DeSalvo was screaming into the unit’s microphone in one hand, trying to coax a response out of Pavone on the handheld. “I don’t give a fuck, you got the address. Get a u
nit there. Get an ambulance. Right fucking now.” He switched to the handheld. “Mike, talk to me.” Silence. Back to the unit radio. “Get Dupond in Homicide on the air. Do it now.”

A BMW flew past, Watt at the wheel.
DeSalvo, torn between losing Watt and leaving Pavone, said “Shit,” dropped the car in gear and took off after the BMW.

Cassie drove, leaving Dupond to work the radio. DeSalvo spewed a manic dialogue into the air and Dupond eventually got him calmed down. Traffic was light and Cassie pushed the car hard on to the interstate, heading east. After ninety five miles an hour the front end shook and she kept it pegged at ninety, the big Ford floating on bad springs.

“Does he know you’re behind him?” Dupond asked DeSalvo when he could get a word in. 

“He just crossed Franklin,” DeSalvo shouted. “Goddamn right he knows, I’ve had my bubble going for two miles. What about Mike? You heard anything?”

“He’s down,” said Dupond, “Still alive but hurt pretty bad. Sal, listen to me, Mike’s weapon is missing so Watt may have it.”

“We’re coming up on Seabrook, I’m about a hundred yards back, can’t tell if he’s going back Lakefront or…..He’s taking the bridge, he’s taking the bridge toward Downman.”

“Okay, stay cool. I’ve got a car coming from Seventh, they’re right in the area. Stay with him. Sooner or later we’ll get him boxed in.”

“He’s probably heading for Morrison,” Cassie said. “He can go east or west after that, or go up Downman. We’re coming up on
the Downman exit, or we can keep going and try and meet up with him around Morrison. But we don’t know which way he’s going to go.”

“He’s just running right now,” Dupond said. “Even he doesn’t know where he’s going.”

“Downman it is then,”Cassie said and took the ramp, braking hard.

The BMW was a smooth running vehicle. Watt went through the red light on Elysian F
ields, didn’t slow down. All hell had broken loose and there was nothing to lose, nothing to do but go out big. Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. He had money in Europe he could access if he managed to get there. Maybe through Canada or Mexico? Too much to think about right now. He had the cop’s gun, the handle bloodied where he’d beaten the man, and the weight of it, along with the slick feel of blood, gave him confidence.

By
the time he crossed Franklin, he was looking for people, a crowd, somewhere he could get lost or failing that, use as a shield. The Seabrook Bridge loomed ahead and he lost the flashing lights behind him as he topped the rise. Ahead, he knew the road made a sharp turn to the right where it turned into Downman and crossed Hayne Boulevard. He also knew there were two bars close by and both catered to late night crowds, drawing them in with a schedule of local bands. If his luck held, he might be able to get lost in the crowd outside.

His luck didn’t hold. Watt swept into the curve too fast, felt the tires start to go, and overcorrected. The light was wrong and when the BMW banged against the curb the rear end slewed, sending him spinning into the intersection where a dual wheeled pickup, driven by a 16-year old girl who’d borrowed it from her father without his knowledge, plowed into the passenger side door with a crushing boom.

Desalvo started shouting again as Cassie and Dupond bounced over Chef Highway. Cassie had the pedal to the floor, controlled the bounce, and pushed down the two lane street, siren blaring. Dupond threw the handheld back on the dash. Pavone was in the ambulance. Watt’s apartment was empty the uniform unit reported, something Dupond already knew.

“He’s hit,” DeSalvo said, starting to calm down now. “He got clipped at the foot of Downman and Hayne. Hold on, hold on.” He was back a few seconds later. “He took off, the people hanging around said he ran into PQ’s. The cruiser’s pulling up. Hold on.” He forgot to let off the button and Dupond could hear him yelling. Then he was back.

“I’m going in. The unit’s calling another ambulance, we got a girl here, bleeding from the head. Can you guys come up the back way? Go a block over and follow it straight up. Try and close off the back.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve got it. Listen, if he wants to go out the back, don’t try and stop him. Anybody see a weapon?”