Read Online The Death Artist by Jonathan Santlofer - Free Book Online

Richard, but . . . I have to do it.”
    Richard shot her an incredulous look as he moved toward the handcrafted mahogany bar, mixed gin and vermouth for Kate, refreshed his Scotch. He pinched the bridge of his nose; his frown lines deepened. “Wasn’t there a reason you gave that all up, Kate? I thought you wanted out of police work.”
    “I did, but–” Kate tried to collect her thoughts, which was not easy with Richard’s blue eyes–so sweet a minute ago–now focused on her with total disbelief. She reached for his hand. “I’m going to need your support on this.”
    For a moment he hesitated, then his fingers closed around hers. “Of course. You’ve got it.”
    They were quiet a minute in the dimly lit living room, then Kate remembered she’d been trying to reach him for hours. “Where were you?”
    “When?”
    “Tonight?”
    He hesitated a moment. “At the office, and then out with clients. Plus, my cell phone died. God, I’m so sorry, honey. If I knew–”
    “I needed you there with me–to throw your weight around. Get the cops off my back.”
    “They were rough on you?” Richard’s blue eyes sparked with anger.
    “No. Not really.” She closed her eyes. Again, Elena’s face–destroyed, bloated–flashed.
    “You okay?”
    “Yes.” Kate shook her head, whispered, “No.” She leaned against her husband, let him lead her toward the bedroom.
    “Lie down, darling.” Richard’s hands gently pressed her shoulders onto the bed.
    Her eyes sought his. “I love you, Richard.”
    “I love you, too.” He took her hand, squeezed it.
    Kate let her body sag into the big white bed, pressed her eyes closed. She pictured Mead in his stupid paisley bow tie. The finder is often the perp.
    The man was way off with that one. But who then? And why ?

CHAPTER 6

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    Two miserable days in the Hamptons. How Richard had ever convinced Kate that it would do her good to get away, to walk along the close-to-perfect stretch of beach nestled below the dunes of their East Hampton home, Kate would never know. When she wasn’t crying, her insides were raging. Another day out there and she’d have been shooting up the local farmers’ market.
    Two days. Two days ! Damn it, she knew what time meant to a murder investigation. Even if Richard had insisted that little or nothing would get done over the week-end, Kate worried that little or nothing would ever get done–no matter what Tapell said. This wasn’t the kind of case that got attention unless someone was pushing, and pushing hard.
    At least now, back in Manhattan, she could be active.
    After Richard left for the office–Kate having assured him she’d be fine–she’d been organizing her own small office, making neat stacks from the papers that had previously sprawled over most of the authentic Biedermeier wooden desktop. First, her art history research. Hard copies of every lecture she’d ever given, dozens of reproductions with hand-written notes, art journals, periodicals and magazines, literally hundreds of art postcards. Thank God for her filing cabinet. Not that she was going to organize any of that right now, but it was a place to store it.
    But now what to do with a decade’s worth of miscellaneous information? A folder on New York’s finest restaurants with the names and personal telephone numbers of each maître d’, a list of caterers for every possible occasion, information on the best florists in New York and every major American city, catalogs from South American hothouses specializing in mail-order orchids, articles and clippings on noted French and domestic vineyards.
    All of it seemed totally absurd. She dumped the papers into the antique silver wastepaper basket, just one of the many gifts Richard had given her when she first set up this office. It had been after her second miscarriage, after the hand-stenciled balloons on the walls and puffy white painted clouds on the ceiling had been latexed over and the crib returned for