FORTY-SEVEN
It had been a strange request….
Worried about Barnett’s condition, Teddy had called him last night at the hospital to see how he was making out. Barnett thanked him for the call, but kept it short saying that the pain was getting to him and he still felt like shit. After making a few more calls over a couple of beers, Teddy grabbed a third bottle and went upstairs, checking his voice mail before he closed out the night. Among the list of messages was one left by Alan Andrews himself. The district attorney wanted a meeting in the morning just as Jill said he did. Teddy’s first thought had been that the FBI was off to an early start. Rather than wait until morning, agents had approached Andrews the moment Dr. Westbrook called to brief them on the case. But Andrews didn’t want to meet at his office. Instead, he’d given Teddy another address. The Museum of Art, he said. Nine sharp.
Teddy entered the Conservation Department, spotting Andrews and Powell with a group of men and women from the museum. The room had the look and feel of a modern laboratory. As he approached them, he noticed several canvases leaning against the wall and recognized them.
They were the work of Oscar Holmes. The paintings Teddy had seen in his client’s apartment with Detective Jackson standing over his shoulder. Obviously, Jackson had reported Teddy’s interest in the paintings to his boss when he reached his favorite watering hole.
Andrews smiled like a snake and shook Teddy’s hand. He had a twinkle in his eye. Powell stood beside him and seemed unusually subdued. Something had happened and Teddy could hear the telltale rattle. Andrews was ready to strike.
“Thanks for fitting us into your busy schedule,” Andrews said. “You’re five minutes late.”
Teddy ignored the hit. Then Andrews introduced him to the curator of the Modern Contemporary Department, two conservators and the conservation photographer. From the looks on their faces, it was clear to Teddy that he was the odd man out. Everyone there knew something he didn’t.
He glanced about the lab, taking in the room in quick bites. He noticed one of Holmes’s paintings on an easel set before a high-resolution video camera. Behind Andrews he saw a long row of light tables covered with sheets of X-ray film.
“Why don’t we get started,” Andrews said to the curator.
They were standing beside a computer. One of the conservators sat down at the keyboard and clicked open a window. As everyone moved in for a closer look at the monitor, the curator filled them in on what they had done over the last two days.
“X-rays were taken of each of the paintings and scanned into the computer,” she said. “What you’re looking at is a negative image of the surface of the canvas.”
Teddy studied the black-and-white image on the monitor, realizing it was the same painting he’d seen on the easel. A peaceful landscape. A view of rolling hills with the shadows of a man and woman stretching over a field.
“But there’s an image underneath,” the curator said.
As if on cue, the conservator at the keyboard clicked an option on the menu. Teddy watched as the peaceful landscape began to fade and a second image gradually appeared. In spite of the curator’s gentle voice and easy manner, Teddy felt a whip of fear snap against his spine right between the should blades. It was a nude. A young woman with blond hair who looked as if she was being consumed by her emotions. There was a sadness to the work. An oppressive stillness.
Teddy didn’t recognize the model’s face. As he thought about the missing persons bulletins tacked to the wall in Nash’s office, he noticed a resemblance but wrote it off as a coincidence and matter of style.
“Let’s see another,” Andrews said.
Teddy eyed the district attorney, then looked back at the monitor. The snake was still rattling its tail. It hadn’t struck yet.
A second black and white image appeared on the screen. Within a few moments, another pastoral setting gave way to a second nude. Teddy noted the blond hair, the common bone structure, and realized it was the same model. She was wilted on the floor, the melancholy as overwhelming as the first painting they’d seen. But the work was also beautiful, like the warmth of a fire burning under the mantel on a string of rainy-day afternoons.
“I believe there’s a third,” Andrews said. “This one in particular caught my eye.”
Teddy winced at the district attorney’s smooth delivery. Andrews was enjoying the moment, his slickness coming off like grease. Teddy tried to get a grip on himself, but it didn’t work. As an image of a slow moving river painted in moonlight began to fade, he recognized the face, the body, even the tattoos rising to the surface.
It was another nude. But this time he knew the model. It was Darlene Lewis.
Teddy staggered back as if he’d been hit, and everyone turned. He looked away, moved to the light tables, took in the sheets of X-ray film as he caught his breath. He tried to remember what Holmes had said the first night they met. Darlene Lewis used to let him look at her. But it hadn’t been about sex. Holmes had been studying her body for his painting.
“I’d like to thank you,” Andrews said in a quiet voice.
Teddy could feel the district attorney standing right behind him now. He held a file in his hand. He opened it and tossed it on the light table.
“I spoke with your client last night,” Andrews said. “He confessed to the murders of Darlene Lewis, Valerie Kram, and ten other women. This is a copy of his statement. You’ll notice his signature on page ten.”
Teddy felt the snake’s teeth pierce his skin, the venom freely entering his bloodstream. “You can’t talk to Holmes without permission from his attorney,” he said. “You broke the law, Andrews. This paper isn’t worth shit.”
“But I did have permission from his attorney,” Andrews said. “Not you, Teddy Mack. Holmes’s lead attorney. Barnett offered his advice and consent. He listened to the confession over the telephone.”
It felt like a knockout punch. Like he’d been tossed from a moving car and dragged over the concrete at high speed. Teddy paged through Holmes’s statement, unable to read it. When he turned the statement over, he froze. On the bottom of the file was a copy of their profile. The profile he’d sent to Barnett in his hospital room. Teddy’s note to the man was still attached.
“Apparently you thought the killer was an artist,” Andrews said. “Thanks for making my case.”
“He is an artist, Andrews. He’s just not this artist. You’ve bungled another one. You’ve got the wrong man.”
The district attorney chuckled. “You’re young, Teddy Mack. You’ve got a lot to learn. Better luck next time. Barnett needs verification that the x-rays exist. Next time you talk to him, tell him what you’ve seen.”
Teddy felt the poison enter his heart and shoot through his body. He flashed a hard look at Andrews, hoping he had enough inner strength not to strike the man. The district attorney couldn’t hold his gaze and stepped back. Teddy shook his head, still stunned. He thought of Holmes’s fragile mental state and knew his client would’ve agreed to anything if he was told it might stop his nightmares. He thought of Barnett selling them out and betraying them in order to make the deal. When he glanced at Powell, he saw her wipe something away from beneath her eye and turn away.
FORTY-EIGHT
Teddy sat in the museum coffee shop, mulling over the aftermath of the explosion and filled with self-doubt. Andrews had a complete case now. He had the physical evidence linking Holmes to two murders. A witness who saw Holmes running away from the Lewis house. A painting of Darlene Lewis in the nude. And now he had a confession. Alan Andrews was a slime bag, but he had everything he needed to put Holmes away for the rest of the man’s life.