Page 8 of Go Now
‘The vic lives out in Westchester, but he’s got a studio here. Probably for street cred.How can you be an avant-garde artist andnotlive in Brooklyn?Anyway, judging by the bedding and the large inventory of condoms, he spends quite a few nights in town.’
‘Wife, family?’
‘Wasengaged to a fellow scene-shaking sculptor.Kathy Crendell.She jacked it all in to become an agent to a small stable of avant-garde artists, including our Brandon.Somewhere along the line, they consciously de-coupled and just became agent and client.I don’t know whether that was amicable or not, but if they’re in a business relationship, it can’t be too hostile.’
‘We’ll find out,’ Kate said.‘How was the body found?’
‘The artist who has the next-door studio let herself in; they share a refrigerator because she does, like, massive industrial pieces, whatever they are, and she wanted milk for her coffee. Called 911 at 0644 this morning. My opinion, killed between midnight and five in the am.PM will give us a clearer picture.Here we go.’
The building was one of those clever kit-blocks that could be assembled in a week or two: each shipping-container-sized unit stacked onto others, affording maximum light and minimal footprint.When every occupant was in situ, hammering and painting, Kate thought, the place had to sound like an iron foundry. How could anyone be creative here?
On the other hand, that made it a great location for a murder.
But not if you struck at night.
They stepped into Ashworth's unit, hit immediately by the smell of… art.It was turpentine and oil paints, clay and varnish, hot metal, and cut wood. Kate had enjoyed drawing at school; the other stuff – throwing pots, carvings – it was all a bit too messy for her.
A duo of crime scene techs were taking equipment down to their vehicle.Nods of acknowledgement all round, a formality Kate had to force herself through.Her attention was drawn to the top right corner of the unit. Lying there, face up, in a crazy, broken pose, was the body of the sculptor. There were small, fist-sized stones or rocks scattered all around the body: Kate counted nine.
‘Stoned to death?’she questioned.
‘That’s it,’ replied Chen.
‘Not with these rocks, though,’ said Kate. ‘Look at the wound on his head.’
They steeled themselves to bend down and examine the body. The front of the man’s face was mostly concave, smashed right in.
‘One bigger rock did that, and not thrown.To make damage like that, it would have been held and wielded, maybe twice or three times, like a weapon or a tool.Like a hammer.’
‘You’re right, Vee,’ Marcus said, coming closer.‘And there are no injuries consistent with someone throwing these pebbles.’
‘Why scatter them then?’asked Chen.
‘For the setting,’ Kate said.‘For the meaning. If you were stoned to death in ancient Israel,
it was a penalty.A punishment. You could get it for uttering one of the unmentionable names of God. Or for breaking any of the Ten Commandments.’
‘What commandment would he have broken?’Marcus asked.
‘ “Thou shalt not make unto thyself any graven image”,’ she replied.‘As in, no worshipping of statues or idols.The second commandment.’
She said this before she realised its significance. When she did, she felt it physically: a flash of heat, followed by intense cold.The second commandment.
In her last case, Cox had targeted people he considered to have broken the first commandment, ‘You shall have no other gods before me’.A priest with a relaxed attitude to his sacred vows, a celebrity academic who called faith a delusion; they’d died horrible deaths, and Kate had nearly joined them.She still dreamt about Cox’s attack on her: the greasy smell of diesel, the heavy darkness of the derelict church he’d chosen for the denouement, the killer’s pitiless, unblinking gaze.And later, the words he’d said to her from his prison cell.The threat.
‘Did you hear me?’
Marcus’s words interrupted her thoughts with a jolt.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘I said – do we think that’s the motive?Breaking the second commandment?’
‘I… it’s just a possibility.We don’t know enough, do we?For all we know, Ashworth was murdered by his old rock-climbing buddy.’
Marcus acknowledged the point with one of his standard grunts.Then another thought seemed to strike him.He bent down to floor level, nudging first one of the rocks with a pen, then another, and another.
‘There’s no blood on these stones.Not a splash.’
